


an anchored heart in a shoreless sea

by rievu



Series: seas who could sing so deep and strong [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Slow Burn, because no one not even god will stop me from loving cassandra pentaghast, when the game doesn't give you canon content, you make your own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-08-25 08:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 123,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: "It is a rather quiet collection of circumstances when you consider all the parts that comprise the whole of Cassandra’s love.Cassandra remembers the quiet melodies that Lavellan used to sing, the sound of her lilting voice, the way the rays of dawn framed her smiling face. All of these are quiet things that lead up to a relatively quiet whole, but Cassandra knows that it felt anything like quiet . If there was any sort of quiet about it, it was like the quiet between lightning strikes of a thunderstorm, the quiet before the crack of dawn, the quiet before the exhale and inhale of breaths in battle. It was an exhilarating type of love that Cassandra doesn’t quite know how to classify yet."// how a seeker and a herald fall in love, slowly but surely, like an anchor in the middle of a shoreless sea





	1. no anchor yet still moored to the heart

**Author's Note:**

> prologue from the end of a sorts;

It is a rather quiet collection of circumstances when you consider all the parts that comprise the whole of Cassandra’s love.

Cassandra remembers the quiet melodies that Lavellan used to sing, the sound of her lilting voice, the way the rays of dawn framed her smiling face. All of these are quiet things that lead up to a relatively quiet whole, but Cassandra knows that it felt anything like  _ quiet _ . If there was any sort of quiet about it, it was like the quiet between lightning strikes of a thunderstorm, the quiet before the crack of dawn, the quiet before the exhale and inhale of breaths in battle. It was an exhilarating type of love that Cassandra doesn’t quite know how to classify yet.

She thinks about all these things as she waits in agonizing silence outside the makeshift tent that serves as the Inquisition’s medical facility for now. Her nerves are shot down to the frazzled ends, but she can still feel the ebbs and flows of magic through the fabric of the tent. Part of it is sharp and cold, numbing pain and cutting through flesh — Vivienne’s work — and the other half is Dorian’s flamboyant fire that licks up and sways on the edge of some unseen boundary, some unseen void. Solas’s magic is infuriatingly and miserably absent. Beneath all of that, Cassandra can sense the undercurrent of a wilder kind of magic, something born of fields and open skies. 

Cassandra once told Lavellan that it felt like freedom when she tried to probe it with her Seeker abilities. Lavellan laughed with delight when she heard that, and the branches that were inked on her cheeks stretched across her laugh lines. 

Now, Cassandra hopes and prays that this freedom isn’t as fickle, that Vivienne and Dorian are successful in keeping Lavellan anchored to life.  _ Her Ellana _ , she thinks desperately.

But then again, how would you keep someone anchored down when the Anchor was the very thing that they lost?

Cassandra doesn’t know but silently prays that the answer is something that would ease the pain in her heart.


	2. a single boat in a shoreless sea

Lavellan was initially nothing more than a suspect barely held together by bandages, apothecary’s salve, and glowing green light.

Cassandra remembers looking at her when she was still unconscious. Green light flowed through her markings, illuminating the branches across her face and trailing down her skin. When she pressed her hands to the elf’s forehead, she could feel the burning heat of her fever. Lavellan was nameless back then, and Cassandra only looked at her with suspicion and grief. After all, the Divine had just died. She welcomed a nameless scapegoat more than she wanted to admit. Still, a small pang of pity surged through her heart every now and then when she was in the apothecary’s hut during one of Lavellan’s more lucid fits. Her “lucidity” was mostly small cries and whimpers of pain.

When Lavellan woke up, Cassandra and Leliana had her tied down, ready to interrogate. But when she woke up, she blinked those reflective eyes of her and said nothing. Instead, her gaze flicked around to her surroundings, trying to gauge the light, the situation, anything else that she could find. Cassandra remembers leaning in close and trying to intimidate her. She knew that with her expression and strength, she could do it. Not that she was particularly proud of the fact, but it was something that she believed was necessary at the time.

The only name the elf gave was “Lavellan,” nothing more and nothing less. And then, the elf called Lavellan saved them all.

Cassandra thinks that much of her perspective changed that day. Well, changed wasn’t exactly the best word to describe it. It was more like different pieces of the puzzle switched places in her mind, and she had to re-evaluate Lavellan with clearer eyes and a different perspective.

Now, as she stands and watches Lavellan in the Hinterlands. She’s wading through a sea of grass, and in the gentle waving blades of grass, she bobs like a single boat in a shoreless sea. Even though Cassandra knows that Varric and Solas are right beside her, seeing Lavellan alone in the front makes her seem inexplicably lonely. Rationally, she knows that Lavellan is a bright soul — the type of person to always offer up a dreamy and happy smile to anything — but Cassandra still thinks that Lavellan is constantly lonely in a bizarre way. She supposes that’s a rational assumption to make if you consider the fact that the elf is isolated from her clan and thrust into a position that demands from her a religion that she doesn’t believe in and an act that she doubts she can do. Still, she seems to be a cheery sort of person. A person like wouldn’t be _lonely_ , would they?

The Hinterlands seem peaceful and quiet, but there’s an undercurrent of violence that threads throughout the entire area. Rogue mages and templars wander through the grasses as well as bears and other dangers. The cries of refugees and the miserable, fearful atmosphere sets the entire party on edge.

Still, Lavellan leads the party forward and stops to help nearly every person she comes across. No matter what, she clasps hands and bends her head and murmurs in a soft voice to every person who will spare her the time. Sometimes, they are refugees desperate for something, and if Lavellan has it, then she will dig through her pockets for it. If not, she asks for the specific quantity and where she can find them later.

Lavellan never forgets.

Cassandra discovers this after they slaughter a bear who refused to leave them alone. Everyone is bruised and battered, and Lavellan has herself a deep gouge that runs down her left shoulder. Cassandra has some swipes down her right arm, but Lavellan’s still the worst off.

Solas reaches out to Lavellan with a gently glowing hand, but she shrugs him off without a second glance. Instead, she squats down with a small knife in her hands and shuts her eyes to whisper a small prayer. In the corner of her eye, Cassandra notices the way that Solas flinches but she’s focused more on the way Lavellan sways slightly on the balls of her feet before she sets to work on the bear, Her movements are quick and practiced as she neatly skins the bear. Well, she tries to be neat about it. She’s up to her elbows in the bear’s blood and organs, but Lavellan only grits her teeth through the pain in her shoulder and the blood on her hands. Lavellan soldiers on, and Cassandra fears for her health. Cassandra and Solas and Varric all try to help her, but at some point, Lavellan shoos them all away.

“Too many hands ruin the hide,” she scolds as she makes another neat cut with her knife to straighten out Varric’s jagged slice on the bear’s flesh. “I think we will be eating bear meat tonight. I can finish cleaning the hide by the river.”

“What about your shoulder?” Varric asks, his brows knitting together with worry.

Lavellan scoffs, “My shoulder can wait but the bear cannot.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that is the most efficient way to tackle this problem, _da’len_ ,” Solas comments.

“I did not ask for your opinion,” Lavellan mutters under her breath. Cassandra’s the only one close enough to hear it, and when she looks up at Solas, she sees that his expression is unchanged. Cassandra glances over at Lavellan again only to see that she’s raised up a red-stained finger to her lips. “Keep that a secret,” Lavellan whispers. Her eyes dance with hidden mirth before she goes back to work.

Cassandra sighs and gets back up to her feet to help Solas and Varric set up camp for the night. They set up two tents: one for Varric and Solas and the other for Lavellan and herself. Solas gets the fire started with a dancing spark from his finger and roasts the meat over the burning coals. Varric hums a nonsense tune under his breath as he cleans his crossbow, and Lavellan is still at work tanning the hide with solution that she made from salts and some powder from a leather pouch at her side. She winces in pain when she cracks the clots that form atop her wound, but she continues.

Finally, Cassandra can’t take it any more and rummages through her pack for _something_ that will heal Lavellan’s wound. Solas watches her with lidded eyes before he gracefully stands up and hands her a clump of elfroot that he found while setting up the camp. He tells her how to grind down the stems and leaves and how to use the sap, and Cassandra listens and watches his explanation with the utmost attention.

Cassandra clutches the elfroot in her hands, and her nerves almost make her crush the plants when her hands tighten nervously into fists. She makes her way down the riverbank, and one of Solas’s bobbing lights follows her to light her way. Lavellan is, of course, finishing the tanning process with her Dalish concoction and magic dripping from her hands. She doesn’t bother to look up when Cassandra steps closer, but she does say, “I will not sleep until the job is done so you may go on ahead and sleep in your bedroll. I can set up my own, and I will not wake you when I come back.”

“That wasn’t what I came here to ask,” Cassandra replies. Lavellan looks up, and Cassandra sheepishly lifts her hands up to display the elfroot. “I came here to help you.”

“Ah,” Lavellan says blankly. She looks down and inspects the wound on her shoulder — or as much of it as she can — and comments, “I think it looks much worse than it actually is.”

“But a wound is a wound, and it must be taken care of,” Cassandra insists. Without another word, she squats down and pulls the flat wooden board that she tucked under her arm before coming down. It was one of Solas’s boards, and she laid the elfroot over it. With a clean, smooth stone from her pocket, she quickly grinds up the stems and leaves into a paste. “Alright,” she says after sprinkling powdered prophet’s laurel onto the salve. “It’s ready.”

“You did not have to,” Lavellan breathes out, eyes wide and focused on the salve. “I could have taken care of myself.”

“But you aren’t,” Cassandra points out. “And if you’re not going to care for yourself, _I_ will. I’ll care for you.”

Lavellan falls silent and allows Cassandra to pull her away from the hide. Cassandra wordlessly washes off the dried blood of Lavellan’s hands and arms and as much of her clothes as she can. Clouds of rust red bloom in the water from the bear and some of Lavellan’s own blood as the clots on her wound crack and bleed anew. Still, Lavellan makes no sound, does not wince or whimper. Cassandra admires the grit it takes for it because she knows that pain is no easy experience. Lavellan turns slightly to grant Cassandra better access to the wound, and she lets out a soft sigh of relief as Cassandra packs the cooling salve onto her shoulder. Lavellan reaches into one of her many pouches and hands Cassandra a scrap of cloth. Cassandra takes it and rips it into long strips that she then uses to bind up the wound. When the job is all done, Cassandra reaches over to wash her hands in the river.

She can feel Lavellan brush her fingertips across her shoulder, and she asks, “Did you need anything else? Did I miss a spot?”

When Cassandra turns around and faces Lavellan fully, Lavellan reaches over to cup Cassandra’s face with her cold, clean fingers. Cassandra opens her mouth to say something, and her face flushes pink with the sudden touch. Her cheeks blush to scarlet when Lavellan shuts her eyes and bows her face until her forehead is touching Cassandra’s.

For a short moment, Cassandra can’t focus on anything else except the rapid-fire beat of her heart and the contact between Lavellan and herself. Then, she hears the gentle hum of a Dalish song and then the soothing thrill of healing magic across her skin. It soothes the aches and smoothes the scars and clotted-up scratches that the bear left on her. It ceases when Lavellan stops humming and opens her eyes. The bobbing lights around them reflect off her eyes, and to Cassandra, they look luminous and _lovely._

Another quiet moment passes where they just gaze into each other’s eyes until Cassandra finally tears herself away and stammers out, “T-thank you.”

Lavellan chuckles, “No, I should be the one thanking you.”

Cassandra looks away as she tries to calm her crimson face and replies, “It was just a simple poultice. You would have done the same for me, and just now, you’ve healed me too.”

Lavellan lets out a soft breath as she runs the same healing magic over her own skin. “No, I am thanking you for more than just the poultice. I do not think I have ever properly thanked you for all that you have done for me.”

“For what?” Cassandra asks, absolutely mystified.

“For taking me seriously,” Lavellan answers. She leans to the side to catch Cassandra’s gaze and continues, “For considering all the evidence before blindly blaming me. For protecting me when every single person thought I killed the Divine. For spending your time with me, watching my back for me, for protecting and healing and helping me. _That_ is what I am thanking you for, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.”

Cassandra is speechless and doesn’t even move. Lavellan has to lift her cold fingers to Cassandra’s face again to shift Cassandra’s gaze back to her. Red spreads violently across Cassandra’s cheeks, and she’s left at an utter loss. No words to say, no way to react. She tries to say thank you, but only a vaguely strangled noise comes out of her throat. She can’t figure out why she feels so flustered, especially in front of someone like Lavellan. Or perhaps it’s because it’s Lavellan that makes her feel this way.

Lavellan laughs, high and clear and light, and sets her hands back down in her lap. “That was a lot, I know,” she says. “But those are my true sentiments. I appreciate you, Cassandra, and I wanted to thank you earlier. We never had the proper time to do it though.” She glances over at the tanning hide and wryly smiles, “And to do it during a tanning was unexpected.”

Cassandra clears her throat and admits, “I simply did what I had to do. Nothing more than that, I assure you.”

Lavellan gazes at Cassandra, and once more, Cassandra thinks that they’re absolutely brilliant: dark as her vallaslin and her hair but nevertheless bright with dancing light. “But most people,” she says. “do not even give others the courtesy of that. You did something that few people do, Cassandra, and I thank you for it.” She stands up, stretching out her lanky limbs as she does so. “We should finish up and head back before Solas and Varric get worried about us.”

Cassandra helps Lavellan gather up her supplies and the bear hide. They trudge back up to the riverbank with a bobbing magelight that guides the way. Varric and Solas are still near the campfire. Both are scribbling down something in their respective journals now, and Varric looks up when Cassandra and Lavellan come closer. “Well, you look a little more cleaned up, birdie,” he comments.

Lavellan giggles at the nickname. She always does so quietly when he uses it. Cassandra can’t help but admit the nickname is accurate. Lavellan is almost always poised on her toes, as if she were ready to take flight at any moment, and Josephine always complains that Lavellan eats like a bird and needs to eat more to gain healthy weight. Cassandra almost snorts when she remembers Josephine’s miniature rant around the makeshift war table about that. Josie didn’t believe her when Cassandra mentioned that Lavellan constantly ate. The elf always had a handful of nuts in her pocket or absentmindedly chewed on mint leaves while wandering. No, Cassandra knows the patterns and habits of hunger and traveling, and Lavellan uses them viciously. Patterns designed for constant and continuous energy for walking and running and hunting and casting, habits developed after years and years of never quite having enough. Typical of the Dalish, in fact. Cassandra hurriedly shakes her head to clear it of all the thoughts swirling around in there and focuses back on the other three.

“So,” Varric says as he sets his journal down. He blows on it once, presumably to help the ink dry, and suddenly, Cassandra burns with curiosity. Is he done writing another chapter of _Swords and Shields?_ Or is he working on it? Or is he writing a new book? A new book like _Swords and Shields?_ She sighs and focuses back on Varric as he continues, “How was the entire… You know, the blood and guts and hide and all that?”

Solas glances up and comments, “Tanning typically takes longer than that. Are you already finished?”

Lavellan lifts up her right hand and wiggles her fingers. Small sparks fly from the tips of her fingers, and she cheekily says, “We Dalish have our own tricks and secrets. But yes, it needs some drying time and it will be done.” She moves to spread out the hide next to the campfire and ties a few sticks of firewood together to create a makeshift drying rack. With care, she lays the hide over it and says proudly, “The man in the village will be pleased to have this.”

Varric scratches his head and asks, “How do you keep all of these requests memorized, birdie? You’ve gotten so many questions, so many requests, and you don’t write any of them down.”

Lavellan taps her head and says, “Memory. A Keeper holds the legacy of a clan. I am a Keeper’s first, and I must do the same.” She sheepishly smiles, “The clan I keep now is simply bigger. That means I must try harder.”

Night passes, but Cassandra wakes up in the middle of it. Nightmare, some sound outside, she doesn’t know. It’s not her turn for the night watch yet, but she turns around to see Lavellan curled up in a ball with her face twisted in fear or pain or both. Her Anchor sparks and shines green in the darkness, and she’s already kicked off her blanket. Cassandra bends over her, trying to wake her up, but Lavellan doesn’t stir. She must be held tightly in a nightmare or something of its kind. There’s little else that she can do.

However, a sudden idea pops into her mind. Something Anthony used to do for her. She has no warm milk and honey, but she does have a bedroll and Lavellan’s blanket. With trepidation, Cassandra drags her bedroll next to Lavellan and tries to keep her warm by spreading both her blanket and Lavellan’s over them. Somehow, among all the movement, Lavellan turns over to her other side and curls in closer to Cassandra. Cassandra stops when she feels Lavellan’s cold hands against her wrist, but she quietly repositions Lavellan so that she’s more comfortable.

Morning comes, and Cassandra wakes up with Lavellan by her side underneath the blankets. The elf has one arm tossed over Cassandra at this point and looks significantly more at peace. Lavellan thanks her in a sleepy tone and with lidded eyes when she finally wakes up, and Cassandra waves it off. Lavellan would have done the same for her in all likelihood. She’s doing it for the Herald’s benefit, and Cassandra tries to reason that to herself for the entire day. But when they camp for the night and retire to their tent, Lavellan and Cassandra both push their bedrolls together and sleep under the same blanket. It becomes a habit that they adopt whenever they’re together in a party and in the same tent which is more frequent than Cassandra expects. Lavellan tends to pick her more frequently even when she has other warrior companions like Iron Bull or Blackwell. Cassandra doesn’t mind it, not the tent nor the companion thing. In fact, she might even like it. It’s… Not bad.

Cassandra gets to know Lavellan even better during these kinds of excursions. She learns Lavellan’s favorite way of preserving herbs when they run across a huge patch of elfroot beneath an wizened tree in the Hinterlands. Lavellan learns that Cassandra loves roses after Iron Bull cracks a joke about the romanticism in Varric’s books that Cassandra loves so much.

Cassandra also finds out that Lavellan loves giving gifts. She finds a small bar of rose-scented soap in her pack and a few days later, she finds several wildflowers tied up in a neat bouquet with twine on top of her bedroll after her shift for the nightly watch. She also observes other companions with their own gifts from Lavellan. Reeds woven into a small basket for holding Dorian’s crystals and shards. A knotted bracelet for Iron Bull that matches the vitaar he paints across his rough, grey skin every day. New quills for Varric and Solas. A ring for Vivienne. Cassandra never tells Vivienne that Lavellan plundered that particular ring off the dead corpse of a rogue Templar though.

It’s these small things that Cassandra watches and learns, and she has to wonder; is Lavellan truly lonely? That inexplicable thought, that hesitant assumption. _Loneliness_ , Cassandra thinks to herself as she stares into the dying embers of another campfire during another watch. She can’t confirm it, has no clear evidence, but there’s still something that rubs her the wrong way. Maybe it’s the distant look that Lavellan gets when she stares off into the wild expanse of the fields in the Hinterlands. Maybe it’s the way she whispers words in that mysterious Dalish language of hers during her sleep sometimes, Maybe it’s the knowledge of how heavy and isolating the burden of leadership can be.

Still, Cassandra tries her best. She tries to make sure that Lavellan is alright, that Lavellan is safe and sound and _happy_. That’s all Cassandra really wants in the end. Well, no. Cassandra wants a great deal of things. But it would be nice to have.


	3. waves upon waves

Just as Cassandra thinks that everything might be alright for once, everything falls apart.

First, Lavellan gets torn from her and falls into that magical green chasm with the Tevinter mage. Then, just as quickly, she tumbles back out with blood staining her armor and a haunted expression ingrained in her face. That emptiness blazes into fury that even startles Cassandra once Lavellan glances around her surroundings. Despite the elf’s short height, she exudes a kind of fury that makes her seem larger than life. She’s never seen Lavellan so enraged before. The woman is positively incandescent with her anger. Alexius takes a step back, and Lavellan advances forward with that same simmering anger lacing the low tone of her words.

Cassandra doesn’t understand all of what Lavellan says: time warping, parallel timelines, Corypheus, and the entire world stabbed through with red lyrium. However, Cassandra recognizes death and suffering no matter what guise it takes, and Cassandra also notices the slight tremor to Lavellan’s hands. Her hands are white-knuckled and in tight fists, but still, they shake.

Lavellan declares herself and the Inquisition for the mages’ cause, and although Cassandra disagrees immensely, she subsides. She will save it for Haven instead. She will not go against Lavellan. Not yet, not while she’s in this condition. Just as she opens her mouth to suggest heading back, Lavellan tackles her into a ironclad embrace and buries her face in Cassandra’s shoulder. Cassandra freezes, her hands still by her sides, but then, she feels Lavellan shaking even harder against her shoulder. Softly, she folds Lavellan in a soft albeit awkward embrace. Then, Lavellan slowly pulls away and studies Cassandra’s face. Lavellan’s eyes are wide and glassy with unspoken tears, and Cassandra doesn’t know what to say. Still, whatever Lavellan finds in Cassandra’s face must satisfy her. She then drifts away to Varric and gives him the same tight embrace and careful look. Solas receives the same, and all three companions exchange glances.

The Tevinter mage — Dorian Pavus, he said his name was — follows Lavellan with his gaze and lightly comments, “Well, time travel certainly is a bracing and terrifying experience. I will be glad to never go through that again.” Something shines in his eyes as he murmurs, “But the theoretical implication behind the occurrence are… Fascinating.”

Lavellan glances back at him and shudders as she says tightly, “Never. Never that again.”

When they start heading back to Haven, a farmer from Redcliffe helps them get back home in his covered wagon. When Lavellan thanks him and insists that they can get home by themselves, the farmer shakes his head and starts loading their bags and bedrolls into the wagon. He insists that he must repay back the good deeds that Lavellan did for him, and she quiets when he says that. “I did not do it expecting something in return,” she says softly.

“But I want to,” he returns as he puts the last bedroll in. He heaves himself on the driver’s seat and jerks his thumb over to the back of the wagon. “Don’t worry, lass, just get in and I’ll help ya home.”

The wagon ride home is quiet, and only Dorian and Varric continue on most of the conversation. Cassandra’s gaze strays over to check on Lavellan every now and then. Her face is less pale and stricken like it was when she came out of the tear in the Veil or whatever that was, but she’s still withdrawn. She’s sitting between Dorian and Cassandra herself, and she’s holding their hands in her own tightly, as if they would slip out of her grasp. Cassandra looks down at their clasped hands and notes the callouses and hard pads of Lavellan’s hand. It’s small, yes, but it’s marked with years of hard work. Cassandra’s own hand is very much the same after years of Seeker training and work. Strangely, she finds it to be a comfort, and she waits until Lavellan is the first to let go of her hand.

Later that night, Cassandra hears a knock at her door and opens it to find Lavellan huddled outside with a basket in her hands. She looks up at Cassandra’s face and asks, “I’m sorry for bothering you, but are you free?” Cassandra nods and ushers Lavellan inside from the night-time chill of Haven’s brutal weather. Lavellan flicks her cloak back and sets down the basket to reveal a small pastry pilfered from the kitchens and a small tea set. Lavellan glances at Cassandra and a small smiles curves her lips as she says, “I brought tea to make up for the bothering. Would you like some?”

“Sure,” Cassandra answers. She studies Lavellan. The elf bends down and sets down the cups on Cassandra’s bedside table before she pours water into the teapot. Then, she wraps her hands around the pot, and her hands begin to glow with heat. It doesn’t take long for the sound of water boiling to fill the room. Lavellan sprinkles in some tea from a small pouch and then pours the tea out into the cups. Cassandra quietly murmurs a small thank you before she accepts the cup and blows on the hot liquid to cool it down. Lavellan slices the pastry neatly and hands Cassandra the larger half. As Cassandra accepts it, Lavellan quietly says, “I wanted to talk to you about what I saw.”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra asks as she sets her teacup down.

Hesitance flickers across Lavellan’s face before resolve tightens and hardens on her face like steel. “You were dying,” she says honestly. “The world was dying too, choking on red lyrium. Magic, the Veil, _nothing_ felt right anymore. Waves upon waves upon waves of _wrongness._ ” She looks up at Cassandra and whispers, “You were there, dying and dying, and then, you died for me. While… While Dorian was setting up the portal to take us back to the right time, you said something… Odd.”

Cassandra wants to tighten her hands into fists — a default habit for her rather than something else like fidgeting or twisting her hands together — and she inquires, “What did I say?”

Lavellan blinks once, twice, and in the flickering lamp light, Cassandra spots the glimmer of tears in the corners of her eyes. “You told me that you regretted too much,” she says honestly. “That you should have asked me more questions, talked to me more, found out if I was ever as alone as I always seemed. And you said that you...” She opens her mouth with hesitation and then, she says, “Never mind. But the fact remains that you sacrificed yourself for me when you did not have to, and… To answer your questions, being a so-called Herald is lonelier than it sounds.” Lavellan glances away from Cassandra as she continues, “I have grown to appreciate your company, but I still miss my brother, my grandmother, my clan. I am Dalish; I have never been this far from home even if home was nothing more than a group of aravels. But I am less lonely than I was at the beginning of all of this thanks to you.” A small laugh bubbles out of Lavellan as she says, “Of course, the others as well. Varric, Solas, Dorian, the Iron Bull, Blackwall, Sera, Vivienne… You have all made me feel more welcome than I expected to feel among _shemlen,_ especially you. Thank you. Truly.” A weak smile curls around Lavellan’s lips as she comments lightly, “I feel like I am always thanking you. But really, thank you very much, Cassandra.”

Cassandra reaches out for her cup and takes a long sip to buy herself some time. She doesn’t know how to respond or what to even say, but when she sets her cup down again, she knows one thing for sure. Lavellan may be the world’s best chance at survival now with her flickering Anchor and knowledge of the potential, malleable future. However, she tugs her thoughts back in line when she notices the glimmer in Lavellan’s eyes, now wetter than before. Instinctively, she reaches out to brush some of her tears away with her thumb.

Lavellan freezes, and for a second, Cassandra worries that she’s done the wrong thing. However, Lavellan leans into her touch closer. Cassandra moves over on the edge of her bed and awkwardly pats the space next to her. Lavellan takes a seat beside her and silently leans against her. She’s cold but not uncomfortably so, and as time ticks by, she warms up against Cassandra’s shoulder. Cassandra can feel Lavellan shuddering through choked-back sobs that heave through her chest, but the elf makes no sound. She only wipes her eyes with the back of her hand every now and then. Cassandra wraps her arm around Lavellan, trying to offer as much comfort as she can.

Eventually, Lavellan reaches out for her now-cold cup of tea and sticks her finger in it to warm it back up. Her finger glows red hot and soon, the tea is bubbling hot in her cup. She does the same for Cassandra’s cup, and then, they sip it together in a more comforting kind of silence.

Cassandra never sees Lavellan that vulnerable again. It’s like she’s picked up the broken pieces of her and consolidated it back together into that brightly-gleaming self of hers. She laughs, she sings, and she skips through Haven on light feet, but sometimes, Cassandra can see the shadows cast over Lavellan’s face when she examines her too closely.

Things become peaceful. Quiet. Almost too quiet. But things seem like they are knitting together, healing, binding.

Once, during another expedition out to the Hinterlands, Lavellan asks, “Do you have any siblings, Cassandra?”

Cassandra looks up and the familiar sting of grief lances through her heart. However, she replies evenly, “I had a brother.”

Lavellan’s ears prick up when Cassandra says “had” but thankfully, Lavellan doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she says, “I have a brother too. My twin brother.”

“Oh?” Cassandra says as she looks at Lavellan closer. She tries to imagine this twin and tries to duplicate Lavellan’s features into her mental image. Would he have long or short hair? Certainly, he would have vallaslin curling across his face like hers, but would it be the same pattern? He would have the same dark hair and lustrous eyes, but would they be as beautiful, as gorgeous, as hers? Cassandra finds herself wandering in her thoughts and wonders how she didn’t realize Lavellan was this lovely before.

Lavellan also spends more time with each and every person.

Cassandra notices the way she leaves behind more than when she arrived. She gathers feathers from birds that descend from the sky to sit on her shoulders. For some reason, she has a way with the birds. Varric’s nickname — _birdie_ — seems more apt now. Leliana delights in this and makes her sit down with her ravens to calm them down after a rough night. Lavellan sits there and cuts new quills for everyone with her easy smile. She gathers herbs to make special blends for them all. There’s a blend for easier sleep and better dreams for Cullen, a blend to ease Cassandra’s monthly blood cramps, a blend for Josephine’s headaches, and a blend designed to not taste like tea for Solas. The last one doesn’t quite work out, but Lavellan makes a new drink, fruit juice that’s mulled and spiced and warm. He drinks it with a smile on his face instead of the usual pucker when it comes to tea.

All of this is good and well, but Cassandra notices a certain kind of desperation in Lavellan’s actions. Lavellan’s always been one to be easy with touch, open and welcoming in a way that Cassandra never expects. However, she used to be so much more reticent. Now, Lavellan always reaches out to hold a hand, to offer a hug, to nestle in closer when allowed. Cassandra gets too used to the way Lavellan’s hand feels in hers, and at night, Lavellan cuddles in closer. Cassandra can’t feel Lavellan’s warmth through the layers of two bedrolls, but the familiar pressure is there.

Despite all of this, despite all this seemingly peaceful atmosphere, it was never meant to really last. It was too quiet.

The world burns just like how Lavellan described in that world of red lyrium in the future. However, it is Haven that burns and it is Haven that crashes against the forces that batter against it. It was a celebration at first: something to feel joy for after the Herald — _Lavellan_ , Cassandra thinks with awe — closed the Breach. She stood next to Lavellan, reflecting back on everything that had happened. For once, she thought they earned something quiet, something peaceful, in the sea of spiralling chaos after Kirkwall’s explosion and the rebellions blooming all over Thedas.

Now, Cassandra can taste the acrid tang of red lyrium on the air. Although she’s never tasted it before, she can sense a harsh, jagged song from it when she reaches out with her Seeker talent. She grits her teeth as she follows Lavellan who plunges into the fray with grim determination etched across her face. Screams fill the air as the civilians try to evacuate, and the sound of metal against metal rings out in the chilly night air. To make matters worse, small flakes of snow begin to lazily fall down, seemingly careless of what’s going on right now.

Lavellan cries out, high and loud, for Cassandra, and Cassandra hurries over to see a burning hut. The heat and smoke sting her eyes, but she sees Lavellan trying to heft a fallen rafter to the side to help a young girl trapped in the hut. Cassandra bends down as well and summons her strength up to help Lavellan create a space for the girl to scramble out. The girl pants out a hasty thank you before she dashes off to the Chantry where Cullen is trying to get everyone in.

Meanwhile, the archdemon screams overhead, and several red templars advance on them. The red crystal juts out of their armor and skin, and Cassandra can feel the song, angry and stabbing and screeching. Lavellan’s face pinches into a grimace as she summons up a fresh wave of magic in her hands.

That magic guides her in the restless, heaving night. Through every combat and fight with the red lyrium templars, Lavellan’s magic is there to light the way. Cassandra’s nerves are taut, and her senses sing with a discordant thrum every time the templars try to smite Lavellan. It sets her teeth rattling and her heart beating irregularly, but she takes that opportunity to shield Lavellan or yell a warning out to her. A small huff of relief escapes her lips every time she sees Lavellan nimbly dodge the smite and launch another flurry of blazing lights.

Everything is red and black. Twisted red lyrium, blood spattered on the snow, fire licking up towards the black sky, scattered soot and ashes everywhere, and the black of uncertain shadows clinging to the corners of Haven.

The large catapults creak as they launch their heavy projectiles through the air, and Cassandra grits her teeth as she holds her shield up. The red templar on the other side bares his teeth at her, and Cassandra uses that opportunity to slam her shield into him. With a swing of her arm, she slashes around his weak side and turns around just in time to fend off another templar. She steps to the side, slashes once more, and raises her shield back up to dance around them. Varric yells at her, and Cassandra follows the sound, leading the templars with her. Then, she circles back around just enough to get them to step on Varric’s traps. The dwarf lets out a loud whoop as he launches a few crossbolts, and Cassandra can feel the cool touch of Solas’s barrier spell settle around her. She spares only a glance for Lavellan who’s struggling to wind up the catapult again. There are only three more templars left; she can distract them while Lavellan’s working. She hefts her shield, ready to play the knight for her Herald.

Cassandra wonders if that was a foolish idea. All three of them have their back turned on Lavellan when the dragon lets out its high-pitched shriek in the sky. Gusts of wind rush over the land from the archdemon’s bony wings, and Cassandra nearly falls over in the snow from the sheer force of it. Lavellan screams over the archdemon, and Cassandra can’t believe it. She exchanges glances with Solas and Varric who have equally bewildered expressions, but Lavellan screams again, “Go! Run to the chantry! I will distract it and then run back to you! Go!”

Cassandra almost lunges forward, but the archdemon lands with a heavy thud on the snow. A cold hand yanks her back by the wrist, and she whirls around to see Solas’s grim face. He looks pained as he says, “We must go to give her the best chance at her plan.”  
“But she’ll _die!_ ” Cassandra snaps back. Her eyes water, but she’s not sure if it’s because of the cold, biting wind or her own emotions.

“And she will die if her plan does not go through perfectly,” Solas counters. “Do you trust her? You have trusted her before.”  
“He’s right, Seeker, we _need_ to go _now_ ,” Varric adds emphatically.

Cassandra tears her hand away from Solas’s grasp and stomps off to the Chantry as fast as she can. A tear slides down her cheek painfully, and it hurts against the bitter cold that consumes the night. Solas and Varric hurry after her as she runs, and Cullen is there at the Chantry door to impatiently wait for them. “Where’s Lavellan?” he asks as he knits his brows together. His tone is urgent and desperate as he continues, “We don’t have much time!”

“I know,” she answers shortly. “She’ll be here soon. I know it.” Her voice falters on the last sentence, but she wills herself to believe it. She has to. Otherwise, she doesn’t know what she’ll do with herself.

The tunnels are cold, but not quite as cold as the outdoors are. The air is musty and bitter, and Cassandra only clutches her arms close to her chest tighter and tighter. Their footsteps echo against the stone, and soon enough, she hears the frenzied murmurs of all the refugees they managed to get in. The girl that Lavellan saved from the burning house worms her way out of the crowd and runs up to Cassandra to ask, “Where’s the Herald?”

Cassandra presses her lips thinly together as she answers, “She’ll be here soon enough.” She hopes so too. She hopes with every fiber of her being.

They wait there for another minute, but then, they can hear the ground shaking. The people in the tunnels start screaming, and Cassandra relates to the terror more than she wants to. How hard did the archdemon have to shake the ground in order to feel it all the way down here? And more importantly, _where is Lavellan?_

Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine come up to her, Solas, and Varric. Josephine is pale as she says urgently, “We need to move out of here.”

“The Chantry isn’t stable enough to withstand a full frontal assault, especially with an archdemon on their side,” Cullen adds.

Leliana shuts her eyes for a moment before she says grimly, “We must move on.”

“But Lavellan,” Cassandra hisses out. Solas and Varric murmur beside her, but Cassandra has no attention for them. Instead, she focuses entirely on Leliana and begs, “One more moment, one more minute!”

Leliana reaches out to grab Cassandra’s shoulders, and in a too-soft, too-gentle voice, she says, “Cassandra, if Lavellan isn’t here yet, then she is probably dead.”

Cassandra’s breath exhales out of her lungs, and she sways on her feet, almost overwhelmed by waves and waves of grief. Leliana steadies her, but Cassandra is grieving. When she looks up, she sees the same emotion mirrored across Leliana’s face. Both know the cost of sacrifice, the pain of casualties, and the necessities of survival. Both know the price of war all too well. She swivels slowly around, seeing the same realization on everyone’s faces. Even Lavellan’s other companions — Iron Bull, Solas, Varric, Sera, Blackwall, Dorian, even Vivienne — all have somber expressions etched across the lines of their faces. Leliana lets go of Cassandra, and she quietly says, “We must move on.”

“Then,” Cassandra thickly says. “Let us go.”

With that, she trudges onward in the tunnels, They slope slowly upward to exit back out into the seething, cold night. The black sky seems to taunt her, and she can’t get the thought of Lavellan out of her head. That single figure alone, standing in front of a hulking dragon, outlined with the raging fires and red lyrium bodies behind her. Cassandra can’t even muster up the energy to cry as she moves forward. Everyone must focus on moving forward. She goes towards a heavy and overladen cart to take some off the bags off, and she hefts them in her hands as she goes on. The work gives her body something more to do, but the mindless nature of it makes her mind spin out possible scenarios with a dizzying speed.

What if she killed off the templars faster? What if they didn’t save the others left behind and focused solely on the catapults? What if she hadn’t let her guard down after the closing of the Breach?  _What if she stayed with Lavellan?_

Cassandra feels like a powerless fool, and when they camp for the night, she slumps down in the snow with dejection. Surprisingly, it is Vivienne who comes to her first, but it is Vivienne that Cassandra would have preferred the most out of all their companions. The strict woman speaks directly and firmly instead of the soft, gentle, coaxing tones that Cassandra hates. “Get up,” Vivienne says. “We need to pitch the tents and get some sort of fire started. Maker, you’ll be soaked through with snow. Get up. We need you.”

Cassandra looks at Vivienne with a dazed expression before sobering up and hauling herself up to her feet. She cannot afford to waste time on herself, not when everyone else needed help. She could grieve later when she was in a safer and warmer place.

Her fingers are numb, but she does her best work. Even though the wind still whistles through the harsh mountains surrounding Haven, Vivienne, Dorian, and Solas manage to lead the mages into creating warm, magical fires that don’t extinguish despite the wind. It warms everyone up, and Cassandra suddenly realizes just how dangerously close she came to frostbite. Her limbs sting painfully against the flickering warmth, but Cassandra knows that if she didn’t feel anything, she’d be in a much more dangerous position. She flexes her feet and her hands by the warmth of the fire as Josephine heaves a pot over the fire. Leliana ladles in snow and Vivienne coaxes the fire to burn hotter to melt the snow into warm, bubbling water. Leliana hands the ladle over to Cassandra and instructs her to distribute it out to people to warm up their stomachs while waiting for others to finish cooking actual rations. This kind of work is better than the heavy lifting since it occupies more of her thoughts, but that stinging sadness is still there at the back of her mind.

Cassandra still can’t shake the thought of Lavellan. The image of her figure standing against the fires is ingrained in her mind’s eye. Cassandra can’t help but wonder if Lavellan would have survived if she stayed behind. It’s a thought that consumes her mind and fills her with self-loathing. There is the pragmatic side of her that screams, _she was the only one to close the Rifts! Thedas is doomed because of your poor judgement!_ But there is the emotional side that stirs up emotions about Lavellan that she’s never allowed herself to feel before

Varric ambles over to sit beside the fire and pour more snow into the pot. They sit in silence, and Cassandra wishes that he would just leave her. She does not want someone else; she wants Lavellan. Suddenly, he says in a torrent of words, "I should have let you stay behind, Seeker. Hell,  _I_ should have stayed. We all should have stayed with her at the end instead of leaving her behind." Cassandra lifts her head up to regard Varric as he clarifies, "Back at Haven when that Archdemon came and nearly squashed us all."

"Lavellan," Cassandra says sharply. "Say her name. Not just 'her' or 'Herald.' Do not let her name be forgotten." She observes the way the dwarf flinches for only a moment before he exhales slowly.

His breath coalesces into a misty cloud before he replies wryly, "I should know better than that, considering Hawke and all. She always hated being called Champion. Said her name was worth more and represented her more than a title ever would. Birdie would be the same. She  _hated_ being called Herald so much too. I just... If I'm being honest, I just ran to save my own skin. Don't know about Solas, but I ran back to the Chantry because I wanted to live. I didn't think that Birdie — Lavellan — would sacrifice herself like that. She's Dalish, she knows better than that. I thought she'd save herself too."

"But she didn't," Cassandra laments. "She saved us all instead."

"I know," Varric says miserably. "I know." He looks up at Cassandra and nudges her hand with a silver flask. "Here, have a sip of this. You look like you need to warm up. And ah, Seeker? I might have underestimated you at first. I didn't think you were capable of thinking beyond your Chantry and your Divine." He looks down with a positively guilty look on his face as he says, "I'm sorry."

Cassandra pushes the flask away as she admits, "No, I do not need it, and no, I am the one who should be sorry. I was the one who took you against your will and demanded answers that you did not have. Lavellan... Lavellan said that we should have talked face to face instead of doing..."

"An interrogation," Varric finishes. "Yeah, that sounds like something Lavellan would say. She's a big fan of that diplomacy thing but not the fancy version like Josephine does."

Cassandra nods, "But apology accepted."

"Same here," Varric responds.

Then, she hears a shout across the makeshift camp.

“The Herald! The Herald’s returned!”

Waves upon waves of emotion crash onto Cassandra all at once, and she gets up without even a second thought. Varric calls after her, but she ignores him in favor of running even faster. She doesn’t put her cloak on, and instead, stumbles out in only her armor and thin breeches. The wind cuts through them easily and sends chills through her bones. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine call after her, but their voices seem muffled to Cassandra. She runs, floundering in the thick snow, after the lone figure she sees in the distance. The figure stumbles, but Cassandra moves even faster, uncaring of the spectacle she makes of herself.

When she reaches the figure, the figure falls to her knees and lifts her face weakly up to see Cassandra. It’s Lavellan, blue-skinned from the cold, but her eyes are still lustrous and determinedly bright. A weak smile cracks across her face, and her chapped lips begin to bleed from the movement as she says quietly, “ _Aneth ara,_ Cassandra. I missed you, _lethallan._ ”

Cassandra tugs her into an embrace, hoping to warm her up with shared body heat. Lavellan buries her cold face into the crook between Cassandra’s neck and shoulder. Cassandra has no words, but Lavellan whispers, “ _Ir abelas_ , I must have worried you all. I missed you.”

Cullen is the first to catch up with them, and he sweeps his fur-lined mantle over Lavellan. Cassandra has never seen Cullen willingly give up his precious mantle for anyone, and she’s grateful for it as she helps wrap it tighter around Lavellan. Everyone else comes, and Varric helps support Lavellan.

“Come on, birdie,” he grunts as Lavellan sways on her feet. Cassandra takes over most of Lavellan’s weight, and Varric helps balance Lavellan’s other side. They exchange glances before setting off, step by step in perfect unison.

Solas and Dorian whisper out spells that send warmth ever so slowly through everyone. “Can’t have you overheating suddenly or shock you with the heat,” Dorian says with a touch of fondness in his voice. “Might have frostbite or any other nasty thing this wretched southern weather could give you.” He leans over Lavellan and whispers, " _Fasta vass,_  Lavellan, never worry me like that ever again. _Festis bei umo canavarum._ " Solas murmurs something in elvhen that Cassandra can't understand. Then, his voice drops even lower, and Cassandra can't quite hear him anymore.

They all bring Lavellan back to the fold, back to the camp, back to a bedroll of her own once again. Throughout it all, Lavellan never lets go of Cassandra’s hand. It’s such a small detail, but Cassandra feels acutely aware of it all. She sits next to Lavellan, even when the elf drifts silently into dreams and sleep.

She barely notices when Leliana lays a hand on her shoulder. Cassandra looks up to see a blanket in Leliana’s other hand. “You’re going to be here for a while if you’re going to stay with her this entire time,” she says in her light Orlesian accent. “Have a blanket to keep you warm while you wait. Don’t worry about the other work. Cullen has it handled.” A small smile curls across her lips as she continues, “Just make sure our Herald stays healthy and warm.” Leliana steps around Cassandra to settle the blanket around her shoulders.

Leliana leaves the tent and the flap swings slightly in her wake. A curl of cold air rushes in with her departure, and Cassandra pulls the blanket tightly around her with her other hand. She squeezes Lavellan’s hand before laying her head down beside her. Sleep takes her quickly as well and she dreams of Lavellan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **translations:**  
>  "aneth ara" = informal hello  
> "lethallan" = casual reference to someone familiar (f)  
> "ir abelas" = i'm sorry  
> "fasta vass" = tevene swear word  
> "festis bei umo canavarum" = tevene for "you will be the death of me" (thanks @ fenris)
> 
> hhhh i still can't figure out a good way to write fic summaries, but eh, i was never rly that great at writing them in the first place? anyhow, i love cassandra and i'm glad y'all are here to experience lavellan and cassandra together with me. bioware committed a CRIME by not letting cassandra be romanceable by a female inquisitor,,,, i'll always be eternally bitter about that tbh  
> also real talk: if i was a mage, i would constantly be warming up my cold tea bc i always forget abt it :( living vicariously thru lavellan rn,,,, rest in peace to all the forgotten and cold cups of tea in the world,,,,


	4. a tide that comes rushing back to the shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate slow burn fics and yet, here i am, writing slow burn fic..... you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain....
> 
> edit: changed some dialogue at the end of the chapter bc i found out that some lore abt the clans that i found wasn't canon,,, it was just headcanon and headcanon that i wasn't a fan of,,, but yeah! fixed that and it's gone now lol

“ _Mi’nas’sal’in,”_ Lavellan declares from her bedroll. “That is what I felt on that long walk.”

Long walk. Such a deceptively simple way to describe what must have been an arduous journey through the snow. Cassandra wrinkles her nose and spoons out some more stew. She’s been tasked with Lavellan’s care; the Herald herself demanded it, and she isn’t one to deny Lavellan in most things. Lavellan flattens her ears at the stew but reluctantly accepts the mouthful. Cassandra leaves the spoon in the bowl and asks curiously, “What is _mi’nas’sal’in?”_ The elvhen word feels strange on her tongue, but she tries her best anyways.

“It is a secret,” Lavellan says with dancing eyes.

However, the tent flap lifts open, bringing some of the breeze in with Solas who enters with a fresh potion. “ _Mi’nas’sal’in_. It translates literally to ‘the knife again in my soul’ but is typically used to describe the intense feeling of missing someone or something that is deeply important or personal,” he says with a small smile.

Lavellan pouts with disappointment as Solas hands the potion to Cassandra. “Freshly made, but our herbal stock is running low,” he tells her.

Cassandra’s still a little stunned by the translation. She didn’t expect Lavellan to feel that way about her — _them_ , she hastily corrects in her mind — but she regains her composure and asks, “How far away is Skyhold?”

“Not much farther based on my estimates,” the apostate replies. He pulls out a journal from his rucksack and checks a certain page. “Perhaps a few more days’ worth of travel. How is the Herald?”

“Do not call me that,” Lavellan says instantly. Her tone grows a little sharper as she says, “Just because I survived some snow does not make me a _shemlen_ god’s chosen. I am not sent by the Maker or Andraste. If you must use a title, use the title of First or Keeper’s Apprentice. _Not_ Herald.” She lets out a long, gusty sigh as she complains, “I have had enough of Mother Giselle telling me to accept the Maker’s warm embrace or whatever that means. I doubt the Maker gives good hugs either way. There are other people who are much closer that I can get warm embraces from.”

Solas chuckles and moves over to check her pulse and her palm. “Well, you seem to be recovering well, _da’len_ , thoughts about the Maker aside,” he comments. “Your health is improving, your Anchor is stabilizing, and your magic is returning to normal.”

“Thank the Creators,” Lavellan grumbles. “I cannot take bedrest any longer.”

“You seem to be enjoying the ride on the Iron Bull’s shoulders,” Solas points out.

Lavellan makes a face and says, “It is because I have a better vantage point from there.” She sighs heavily before snaking out her hand to hold Cassandra’s. “So warm,” she mumbles. “And you are not even using blankets. Lucky.”

Solas shakes his head and leaves with a small smile on his face. Cassandra wants to get up and yell out some excuse after him, but she doesn’t think that she can convince him to wipe that smirk off his face. Also, if she gets up, that means Lavellan will have to let go of her hand and Cassandra will not finish feeding Lavellan the rest of her stew. _She has to recover_ , Cassandra rationalizes to herself before she spoons up another bite of stew with the spoon. Lavellan merely gives her a dazzling smile and a soft squeeze of her hand as a reply.

They move forward with slower progress than Cassandra would like, but they are traveling with civilians, not trained soldiers or scouts. Cassandra has to remind herself frequently when she has to slow down her pace to an interminably slow one. By this point, Lavellan has recovered enough to go bounding about in the snow. She’s talented at keeping herself warm with minimal mana usage, and Dorian constantly complains about the theoretical implications of this. He cites some sort of magical theorem that deems Lavellan’s feat to be impossible.

“Ser Castenwald’s theory of magical induction declares your little parlor trick to be entirely incorrect!” he proclaims over the campfire while fiercely shivering. He even stands up to point at Lavellan and accuse, “You just have a higher body temperature than the rest of us!”

Solas shakes his head across the fire and says, “No, she has a regular body temperature just like you and I. Elves do not have higher body temperatures. In fact, I would expect her to have a slightly lower temperature than yours.”

Vivienne primly sets her mug of soup down as she comments, “And _I_ would expect you to have a higher body temperature than our dear Lavellan considering all the huffing and puffing you do every single day.”

“ _Excuse me,_ ” Dorian hisses with a menacingly polite smile seemingly carved into his face.

Lavellan grabs his hand to pull him down beside her, and Dorian squawks at the sudden movement. “Here,” she says. “Share my body heat if you are that cold. And I am telling you as I have told you before. I just fold my mana like this, and I remain warm. There is nothing more to it.” She wrinkles her nose — adorably, Cassandra thinks — and mutters, “I think your Ser Castenwald is full of _etunash_.”

Solas coughs sharply, and Lavellan narrows her eyes at him. “ _Etunash_ is not a bad word to describe it!” she insists. “It is a perfectly accurate word to describe it.”

Dorian stops shivering long enough to ask, “What does it mean?”

Lavellan reaches over to warm Dorian’s chest up as she says smugly, “No translation in Common.”

Across the fire, Solas flicks open his journal and quietly mentions, “It means ‘shit’ in Elvhen.” He pulls out a roughly-sharpened pencil before he writes down several notes and does his usual nightly sketch.

Dorian lets out another loud squawk before pushing Lavellan’s hands away and launching into a tirade about magical theorems and their value in everyday life. Vivienne cuts in every now and then with a different magical theorem or some alchemist’s perspective while Lavellan kicks her heels against the edges of the fire, sending sparks flying. She moves her hands together in fluid motions, signing out something in a language or system that Cassandra doesn’t understand. Honestly, by this point in the conversation, Cassandra doesn’t understand anything that the mages are saying and privately thinks that everything sounds like a load of _etunash_ , according to Lavellan’s words. Still, she watches Lavellan shape out symbols that she doesn’t understand until a sudden warmth flares up in her chest.

Lavellan raises her gaze to meet Cassandra’s and gives her a cryptic smile. She pauses her motions long enough to give a hesitant thumbs up that wavers between up and down. Cassandra tilts her head and regards her before looking down at her body. The warmth spreads from her chest to the rest of her body, warming up her chilled fingers and toes. She responds by flashing Lavellan a thumbs-up. That alone rewards her with the brightest smile she’s seen from Lavellan all day. She bends her head to continue her motions, and soon, everyone seems like they’re warming up. No one says anything about it — possibly because they think it’s from the campfire — but Cassandra knows better.

The next morning, they move forward with Lavellan leading the way. Just as they crest over the next slope, Lavellan stops in her tracks, and the group of people trailing after her slowly come to a confused stop. Cassandra shoulders her way through the ground and drops her assigned bags to the ground as she sees what Lavellan sees. Nestled in a sea of clouds, the spires of some ancient fortress rise through the mist.

 _“Tarasyl'an Te'las,_ ” Solas says as he comes up behind them. “The place where the sky was held back if translated to Common.”

“ _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ ,” Lavellan breathes out. She sways on her feet slightly, and her hands drift out to grasp some invisible threads in the air. The wind follows the motion of her fingertips, and some of the clouds move back to reveal the fortress in its entirety. A wave of gasps follows behind Cassandra, and now, everyone can see what they see. The wave of gasps soon turns into a wave of cheers, and then, they begin to chant Lavellan’s name.

Lavellan turns to look at Solas and Cassandra with wide, glimmering eyes. “It is beautiful,” she breathes out with awe.  _"Tarasyl’an Te’las_. Skyhold.”

“Magic permeates the stones there,” Solas explains. “Thanks to that, the fortress is preserved and protected against evil.” He dips his head before saying, “It awaits a new master.”

“Oh,” Lavellan says softly. Her hands go limp by her sides, and she blanches before she whispers, “You do mean someone like Cassandra or Leliana or maybe yourself, yes?”

“No,” Solas says firmly as she shakes his head. “I mean you, Herald.”

A shadow crosses over Lavellan’s face as she turns back to survey Skyhold. “I never wanted to be a Herald,” she whispers, Cassandra barely hears it, but the redirected wind brings Lavellan’s words back to her. She turns back to look at the masses of people behind her, and a pained expression lines itself in her face. “But I must be a Keeper for this new clan now,” she murmurs. “I never wanted this, but… I cannot.. I…”

“You can,” Cassandra interrupts. “And you do not have to lead alone. You will have people by your side. You will have Leliana, Cullen, Solas, everyone beside you to help you. You saved us in Haven. You are capable of more than you think you can.”

“And you,” Lavellan says as she glances at Cassandra hesitantly. “Will you be there by my side as well?”

“Always,” Cassandra confirms.

The corners of Lavellan’s lips quirk up, and she nods at Cassandra. “Thank you,” Lavellan says with a soft laugh. “You ease my worry so easily, Cassandra.”

“I’m, you’re, I… I’m glad to help,” Cassandra answers, fumbling through the words and almost stumbling in the snow. A pink flush colors her cheeks and a grin spreads across her lips, but she bites it down after she notices Solas’s smug smirk.

Skyhold is distinctly less impressive closer up. Broken stone and rotting wood scatter the foundation of the fortress, but it must have been a sight to see in its prime. There’s a dwarf among the civilians — Darius Cadash — who examines the stonework and says that everything is fixable within a couple of weeks’ worth of hard work. His niece, Amira Cadash, dances around him and excitedly gives different ideas for the restoration process. One of the ideas includes a special room for nugs, and both Lavellan and Leliana get excited about _that_ particular idea. Varric only nudges Cassandra and mutters, “They both look like Carta dwarves, but I’m not judging. Not when Birdie’s _that_ happy about a damn nug room. Also, a couple of weeks isn’t gonna fix this place up, but I’m not gonna be the one to break it to Lavellan.”

Cassandra presses her fingers to her temples and groans, “I will make Cullen tell her _that_ bit of news, but I don’t think Lavellan believes that it’ll only be a couple of weeks either. I think she’s too excited about having nugs to think about construction time.”

The Iron Bull hoists Lavellan back on his shoulders, and she and the majority of her inner circle run off to explore Skyhold together. Lavellan beckons Cassandra over with her wide smile, but Cassandra has to shake her head and refuse. Lavellan’s expression falls slightly, but she makes Cassandra promise to explore with her later. Cassandra watches Lavellan’s retreating back with a soft smile, and Josephine has to gently tap her shoulder to get her attention.

“You had something to tell us,” she reminds Cassandra in her musical Antivan accent.

“I did,” Cassandra sighs as she reluctantly turns away. She calls Leliana and Cullen and says, “This is where we must establish the Inquisition. However, the Inquisition needs a leader, and I believe I know exactly who it should be.” She sucks in a deep breath and says solemnly, “I believe we should make Lavellan our Inquisitor.”

Leliana considers the idea for only a moment before she says firmly, “I agree.”

Josephine tilts her head as she thinks about it. No doubt she’s raking through the political ramifications of it in her mind, and sure enough, she asks, “Have you considered the impact that will have? Especially on our diplomatic negotiations? We have no Divine to support us or affect our influence. Lavellan, as sweet as she may be, will not gain support from other governments, rulers, and nobles.”

Cullen interrupts her by saying loudly, “But she’s a mage!”

Leliana hushes him and warns, “Don’t be so loud. There are always people waiting to listen in.”

Cullen rolls his eyes and repeats in a whisper, “But she’s a mage!”

Cassandra presses her lips thinly together and tries to summon up counterpoints in her mind. She knows that they were likely to bring these points up, and she finally says, “First, we needed a mage to close the Breach. No other person has the ability to manipulate something like that. Don’t give me that look, Cullen. Try sending some of your templars to wave their swords at the rifts. Even if you send a divine smite after it, the rift won’t stay down for long. Having a person that can control every single rift across Thedas as an Inquisitor means that every single nation will have to cede some authority over to the Inquisitor.” She turns her gaze over to Josephine and reasons, “And that is how we can win over the nobles. Without their land and their men, they have nothing. Their gold will mean nothing, and they will run out of their riches.”

Leliana muses, “Cassandra’s right. And besides, you can charm almost any person to your side, Josephine. You have the gift of diplomacy.”

“Sometimes, I wonder if it’s a curse,” Josephine grumbles, but Cassandra can already see the cogs turning in Josephine’s head.

Cullen narrows his eyes at Cassandra and said sharply, “Thedas is unlikely to follow a mage.”

“A mage saved Ferelden during the Fifth Blight, and a mage became the Champion of Kirkwall,” Leliana points out. Her tone grows cold as she says, “You out of all people should remember the Warden and the Champion _very well_ , Knight-Commander Cullen.”

Cullen flinches at the sound of his old title, and he shrinks in on himself. A shadow crosses over his face, and Cassandra doesn’t know what memory plagues his mind. However, Leliana lifts her chin and softly says, “I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done and experienced in the past, Cullen, both in Kinloch Hold and in the Gallows. It’s true that mages can be dangerous, but not all mage leaders are dangerous. If anything, they are a force to be reckoned with and a force to be used for good. Look at Surana. Look at Hawke. Look at _Lavellan_. Can you truly deny her potential for leadership? Or is your bias blinding you, Commander?”

Cullen tears his gaze away and turns his head to the side. He slowly grits out, “I… See your point.”

Leliana folds her hands together and watches him with a hawk-eyed gaze. “Do you have any other objections about Lavellan, Commander?” she asks smoothly. The expectant look on her face negates any interrogative inflection in her voice.

Finally, Cullen sighs, “No. I don’t. Lavellan, despite being a mage, would be a good leader. I saw how she acted and what she chose to do at Haven.” He raises his head back up to look at Leliana and with a more subdued voice, he says, “I remember Kinloch Hold and the Gallows as well. I hope I’ve changed since then.”

Leliana blinks slowly before she replies, “Perhaps, Commander. Perhaps.”

Josephine and Cassandra uncomfortably wait during the exchange, and they look at each other, trying to parse out the situation. Clearly, there’s something more veiled behind their words, but Cassandra refuses to be the one to ask about it. Josephine seems unlikely to ask as well. Perhaps she would pry later behind closed doors, but that’s not Cassandra’s prerogative right now. She clears her throat, and both Cullen and Leliana turn to look at her. “Is our decision final?” she asks. Everyone nods, and Cassandra inhales a breath to steady herself before she says, “Then, we will announce it to everyone after Lavellan comes back.”

“I’ll get everyone gathered in the clearing,” Cullen roughly says. He turns on his heel and strides away, taking faster and longer strides than usual. He makes his escape quickly and rounds around the corner so quickly that he almost slips on mud.

Josephine glances at Leliana’s stormy expression before she carefully says, “I’ll go help gather people up as well.” She leans in closer to Leliana to whisper something before she gathers her skirts and dashes off.

Cassandra and Leliana stand there as silence passes between them. Finally, Leliana lets out a long and heavy sigh. Cassandra fiddles with the hem of her undershirt before she coughs and asks, “Are you alright?”

Leliana looks up to the sky and murmurs, “Would you like an honest answer or a comfortable answer?”

“You always know what my stance on that will be,” Cassandra replies.

Leliana cracks a smile at that and looks at Cassandra. “That’s true,” she muses. “I shouldn’t have bothered to ask that. But to answer your question, no.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cassandra offers.

Leliana shakes her head. “No, not particularly,” she says. “But I will say that I miss her. I miss her dearly, and Cullen cut a little too close for comfort.”

Cassandra remembers Leliana talking about the Warden once.

It was during their first couple of weeks together as the Left and Right Hands of Divine Justinia. Leliana was new to the official position while Cassandra was passed down from the previous Divine, but Leliana was clearly not new to the requirements of the position. She looked like she was experienced with subterfuge, with daggers and sharply positioned words. Darting eyes, clever tongue, easy demeanor, and a talent for stories and music. But most of all, she remembers that Leliana was a hero of the Blight. Rare for an Orlesian woman to be hailed as a hero in a place like Fereldan, but when Cassandra asked about it, Leliana only told stories about the Warden. _Surana_ , she called her. _My dear Surana._ Rather than the stories, Cassandra remembers the loving look in Leliana’s eyes and the soft, tender tones of her voice as she told her stories about the brave woman. She also remembers a touch of bittersweet sadness in Leliana’s expression. Rare for a woman who grew to guard her secrets with vicious care.

Now, Leliana simply looks lost as she stares up at the sky. Cassandra pats her back gently before leaving quietly. This isn’t something she can heal with a few words, although she thinks that if anyone can do it, it’s either Josephine or Lavellan. Those two have a way with empathy and words that manages to bridge and connect more than Cassandra could ever hope to try.

Cassandra wishes she was better at that. Understanding people, understanding emotions, and navigating them with ease. She wishes this more than ever when she announces that Lavellan would be the Inquisitor. Out of any emotion she expects from Lavellan, betrayal is the last one of them. Yet, the stricken expression across Lavellan’s face is betrayal more than anything else. Oh, Lavellan schools her expression back into a blank mask, but that brief moment shines through to Cassandra. Lavellan squares her shoulders and accepts the sword before she turns back to the crowd to say something inspiring. It must have worked because the next thing Cassandra hears is loud cheering. But she misses all of Lavellan’s speech because she’s so consumed over that singular expression.

Later, Lavellan disappears from the crowd. Based on what Cassandra could tell, she did some greetings, bows, quick conversations, and whatever else that was necessary to the people closest to her after she descended down the stairs. Soon after that, she must have made her escape. No one can pinpoint the exact moment though.

A ghostly voice suddenly whispers behind her, “Surprise, shock, _why is her expression like that_ , aching through your bones, wondering if you did something wrong, but the weight of the sword is too heavy in your hands. _I must pass it on_.”

Cassandra jumps from shock and whirls around to see a pale, lanky boy with a wide-brimmed hat covering most of his face. She struggles to place his face in her memory, but finally, she asks hesitantly, “Cole? Are you the spirit boy?”

He perks up slightly and says, “You remember.”

 _Barely_ , Cassandra thinks with a grimace. She doesn’t trust him, not one bit. She won’t deny help when it is offered, but she will not let him threaten innocents if he turns on them.

Cole nods and says, “Everyone usually forgets me, especially here. You’re not the only one.” He sways on his feet as he whispers, “ _I will not allow you to threaten innocents._ Yes. Yes. Help the hurt, save the small. If I become a demon, cut me down.”  
“You…” Cassandra says slowly. She narrows her eyes at the boy and says, “Do not doubt me.”

“Good,” Cole replies simply.

“You’re serious?” Cassandra says blankly.

Cole cocks his head and answers, “Yes. I hope you are too. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget me.” He pauses and then admits, “But Lavellan always remembers me.”

Lavellan. The mention of her name brings all of her thoughts from that psuedo-coronation ceremony or whatever that was. _Mess_ , Cassandra dubs it mentally. Cole steps closer and says in hushed whispers, “ _I can’t find her anywhere, where did she go?_ Confusion, hurt, misery, _it’s my fault_ , the burden of the blade in your hands is now for her and oh, how she must hate you for it.”

“What are you doing?” Cassandra yelps. A chill runs down her spin as she listens to the boy speak, and it feels like he’s pulling out every single thought and feeling in her head to spin it into words that drip out of his mouth. Guilt floods her thoughts now that Cole speaks them out loud. He’s entirely right. Cassandra never wanted to be Inquisitor, but she always suspected that the Divine or someone else would make her the Inquisitor if the Inquisition was ever made. That was one of the reasons why she tried _so hard_ to find Hawke. That was one of the reasons why she forced the interrogation process too harshly on Varric. For a simple, selfish desire. And now, she was passing the mantle — more like burden — of leadership onto Lavellan. Half of her does truly believe that Lavellan is the best leader, but the other half knows better.

“You’re thinking so loud,” Cole says with a distinctly sad tone that reminds Cassandra of Lavellan’s pouts. “I can’t stop hearing it. You’re the only one I hear right now.”

“Are you listening to my thoughts?” Cassandra suspiciously asks.

“Yes.”

“Stop that!” Cassandra instantly snaps. Her cheeks flush red with the thought of having her mind so vulnerable and open.

“I can’t. You’re too loud,” Cole mournfully answers.

“Oh, for Maker’s sake,” Cassandra mutters as she forces herself to think of better memories. She purposefully avoids all memories of Lavellan and trawls through the depths of her good memories. It’s harder than she remembers the task to be.

“Harpsichord music and careful steps, _Anthony, stop stepping on my feet!_ ” Cole murmurs. “Laughter as you spin around. Different time now. A mage, magic burning in his veins, Regalyan, his skin against mine, _why is his skin so warm — “_

“That’s not any better!” Cassandra hisses. Now, she’s officially scarlet, and she covers her face with her hands in sheer embarrassment. She casts glances around them. Thankfully, there seems to be no one listening in.

Cole shuffles closer to her and apologizes, “I’m sorry.”

Cassandra exhales a pent-up breath as she says, “It’s fine. Just… Please don’t do that again. Don’t say it out loud.”

“Okay. I will try,” Cole replies. He fiddles with his hands before he looks up at Cassandra and says, “You were looking for Lavellan. I know where she is.”

“You do?” Cassandra says with a jolt. She takes a step towards Cole and asks, “Where is she? Is she alright? Can you take me to her?”

Cole nods and immediately turns around to wander off somewhere else. No answer, no clear and definite yes or no. Cassandra stares at him, dumbfounded, but she hurriedly collects her composure (or at least, tries to) and follows him. They weave in and out of the crowd, and then, Cole leads her across a veritable maze of broken rafters and collapsed walls. Cassandra almost slips on a patch of wet moss, but Cole suddenly materializes behind her to support her. She exhales sharply, and the familiar sensation of adrenaline coats her mind. Cassandra mumbles a thank you as she tries to pick her way across the wreckage with more care. Finally, they reach an area that’s _underneath_ Skyhold. The rock dips down and then rises sharply upward to form some kind of cavernous divot into the mountain itself.

Lavellan is there, curled up on a bedroll that she must have dragged down there. There’s a sleeping fur haphazardly thrown across it as well, and although she makes no sound, Cassandra knows that Lavellan already knows she’s there. Her hearing is too acute, and her senses are sharply attuned to her surroundings. Cassandra awkwardly clears her throat and says, “I came to check on you.” Cassandra looks over to Cole, trying to look for some sort of support, but the spirit boy is already gone.

Now, Lavellan turns to look at Cassandra. “How did you find this place?” she asks as she knits her brows together with confusion.

“Cole.”

Understanding dawns on Lavellan’s face and she nods, “Ah, that makes sense. How did you remember him?”

“From Haven,” Cassandra answers as she walks over to Lavellan.

Lavellan looks up at her from the veritable nest she’s made of the bedroll and furs. “Your memory is very strong, Cassandra,” she says with a blindingly bright smile. The smile fades, and she flutters her eyes shut as she hums, “Just like other parts of you.”

Cassandra gets a sinking feeling in her stomach as she mutters, “I’m not just muscle, you know.” Of course, one of her only distinguishable characteristics in the end.

Lavellan’s eyes snap wide open, and she hurriedly says, “No, I mean _everything_ .” She waves her hand at Cassandra as she says, “Your sense of justice, your kindness, your body, your mind. They are all very strong.” A pale pink dusts over her cheeks and long, pointed ears, and she shyly admits, “I like it. Please do not worry about it.” She pats the fur beside her and says, “Sit with me, Cassandra. _Sathan._ Please.” Cassandra moves over to sit beside Lavellan: a familiar and comforting place if anything else. Lavellan clicks her tongue as she drapes the blanket and furs over Cassandra. “It can be very cold down here with the mountain winds,” she murmurs. “I have magic to keep me warm, but you do not.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra says after a beat. She blushes scarlet and pulls the fur around her tighter in an effort to focus on something else. However, that only pushes her closer to Lavellan since Lavellan has the other side of the blanket and furs tightly wrapped around herself too. Lavellan takes that as a sign to curl up right on Cassandra. She leans against Cassandra with her cheek on Cassandra’s shoulder. Beneath the blankets, Lavellan reaches out her Anchored hand to interlace her fingers with Cassandra’s. The Anchor feels strange against Cassandra’s skin, and it seems to hum with some sort of song that Cassandra can barely sense. She looks at Lavellan and wonders, “Ah, I came to check on you to see if you were… If you were alright.”

“Why would I not be?” Lavellan asks.

“You looked…” Cassandra trails off and clears her throat. “You didn’t look happy at the ceremony.”

Lavellan tilts her head up to look at Cassandra, and a smile stretches across her lips. However, it seems mirthless and there isn’t the same spark of joy that brightens Lavellan’s face. There’s something absent, something devoid of happiness, in the smile that graces Lavellan’s face. Cassandra knows Lavellan’s face too well to miss it. “What do you mean, Cassandra?” Lavellan says with that false smile still on her lips. “I do not understand.”

“I think you do, Lavellan.”

Lavellan pauses, and the expression cracks along the edges. Her eyes are wide open, blown with shock for a moment before fading back down to sadness. “Ah, you see through me so easily now,” she sighs. “I thought I was better at acting, but not with you.”

Cassandra now turns, and Lavellan loses her balance and tips over into Cassandra’ lap. She doesn’t move though and remains on Cassandra’s lap, looking up. “Acting?” Cassandra says, almost stuttering on the word with the way fear flickers at the edge of her heart. “What do you mean, Lavellan? Are you trying to hide something? Is something wrong? Lavellan?” She says Lavellan’s name like a lifeline as she searches for an answer in Lavellan’s eyes.

What she finds unsettles her. There’s a distinct note of guilt in the way Lavellan shuts her eyes and twists her fingers together. Lavellan rolls over on her side and props herself up just enough to curl up in Cassandra’s lap. “No, no,” she mumbles. “I just… I do not like it when people worry over me. I prefer it when everyone is laughing and happy. It is _easier_ for that to happen when I am also laughing and happy.”

Cassandra pries Lavellan away from her just enough to look her in the eye as she asks, “But are you truly happy?”

Lavellan blinks at Cassandra before she says honestly, “I am happier now that you are here.”

“Were you happy during the ceremony?” Cassandra asks next.

“...No.”

“Why?”

Lavellan shifts in Cassandra’s arms, searching for a more comfortable position for them both, and when she finds it, she leans in closer to Cassandra. Her fingers wander over Cassandra’s back, tracing out symbols and letters that Cassandra cannot understand. “I was — am — afraid,” Lavellan admits. “Leadership does not suit me, not for this... Inquisition. I trained to guide a clan, not to guide... Whatever this is. I am not meant for this."

“It does,” Cassandra firmly replies.

“What?” Lavellan asks blankly. Her fingers stop for a moment before they swirl into something that Cassandra _knows_ is a question mark on her back.

Cassandra takes a deep breath before she clarifies, “Leadership _does_ suit you. You're meant for it. You’ve been a natural leader this entire time. Haven’t you noticed? Everyone revolves around you because you are so… Magnetic. Charismatic.” It’s entirely true. If Lavellan was the sun in her brilliant and fire-warm light, then Cassandra was one of Thedas’s moons orbiting around her with everyone else following suit. “You make good decisions quickly and without second thought, and you remember everything whether it be the smallest request from a grieving farmer in the Hinterlands to a task from Leliana or Josephine. You are not a poor leader, Lavellan. We all chose you because we believed in you.”

“And what if I cannot meet that belief?” Lavellan bursts out. “What if I fall?” Her hands drop down to her sides, and the sensation of her touch is absent on Cassandra’s back. Lavellan starts to shake, her shoulders trembling with the effort to keep her words and her emotions from spilling out of her. It hurts Cassandra to see it, especially when she knows that Lavellan is not nearly so emotionally restrained as this.

Cassandra tips Lavellan’s face up with her hand, and she presses her forehead to Lavellan. It’s a gesture that Lavellan has only done once for her: the night by the river in the Hinterlands. Cassandra has no healing magic, but she hopes the gesture is enough to communicate comfort to Lavellan. Perhaps it is a Dalish custom or Dalish gesture that is enough to transverse the gap she feels is growing between them. “Then,” Cassandra whispers. “I will be right there beside you to support you. You will not fall.”

Lavellan opens her eyes, and in the shadows of the mountain cavern, they catch the limited light and shine back at Cassandra like luminous mirrors. “Truly?” she breathes out.

Cassandra lets out a soft chuckle. “Truly,” she affirms. “I will always be there to catch you, _lethallan._ ” The elvhen falls awkwardly off her tongue, and based off of Lavellan’s startled and delighted laugh, she suspects that her accent is absolutely atrocious.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Lavellan sighs out as she slips out of Cassandra’s embrace. She resumes her former position and lays down her head on Cassandra’s lap. Relief floods Cassandra’s thoughts, like a tide that comes rushing back to the shore, and Cassandra strokes Lavellan’s hair, carding her fingers through the long, soft strands. After a short period of comfortable silence, Lavellan suddenly says, “You know, I do not think I know much about you, Cassandra.”

“I think you know quite a lot, actually,” Cassandra answers.

“No?” Lavellan says with a quirk of her brow.

“What is my favorite flower?”

“Roses.”

“What do I do when I get hay fever?”

“Punch trees.”

“What is my favorite book?

“Swords and Shields.”

Cassandra huffs out a small laugh and says, “Exactly.”

Lavellan flushes a deeper pink now, and the tips of her ears turn scarlet. “I just…” she stammers.

Cassandra interrupts her to say, “You are observant. That is not a bad thing. I feel like _I_ should be the one to know more about you.”

“Well, we have time now,” Lavellan says. “We can exchange questions about each other.”

“Very well,” Cassandra concedes. “Tell me something about yourself.”

Lavellan mulls over the question for a bit before she says slowly, “I miss my brother. He would be a much better leader than I would be, I think. He chose to honor Dirthamen for his vallaslin, and it suits him well. He finds secrets so easily and harbors them like no one else. And he is _clever_ , oh so clever, and I wish I had him by my side.” She side-eyes Cassandra and says, “Not that you are lesser. To have you by my side is a blessing from the Creators themselves, but I miss my brother. We are twins; we complete each other. Everything that I cannot do, he compensates, and we are one whole together. I miss him. I miss him dearly.”

That is a sentiment that Cassandra mirrors for her own brother. She carefully asks, “Why is he not here with you?”

“Good question,” Lavellan sighs. “I wish he was. But if he is not here, then that means the clan must need him more than I. But we share the same dreams, the same pain. I am sure he must have felt the pull and the pain of the Anchor, especially when we closed the Breach. In Elvhen, we are _nas’falon, nas’taron._ The same soul, two parts of a whole. We are better when we are together, but I missed him and my clan more at Haven. This —  the Inquisition — is like my new clan now. My dear and close friends. I used to think about leaving, about escaping, in Haven, but now, I would not abandon you for the world.”

That last sentiment makes Cassandra feel warm all the way down to her toes. She combs through Lavellan’s hair with her fingers one more time before she says gently, “Thank you, Lavellan. That means a great deal to me.”

Lavellan lifts her hand up to stroke a finger down Cassandra’s cheek with a contemplative look on her face. Then, she drops her hand and says, “Then it is time for my question. Hmm… Why do you like romance novels so much?”

Cassandra burns hot red, and she feels the familiar and self-defensive fire burn in her chest. “Romance is not the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses,” she snaps, her self-conscious thoughts whetting the edges of her tone. “It is _passion._ It is being swept away by the pursuit of an ideal. What is _not_ to like about that?”

Lavellan hums a soft Dalish lullaby and resumes tracing symbols on Cassandra’s body, possibly in an effort to calm her down. Cassandra feels guilty for the outburst, and she settles down as Lavellan says, “I have never read a book like that before in my life.”

“Oh?” Cassandra says with a raise of her eyebrows. “You may borrow my books if you would like. I can give you all the good recommendations.”

“I… Cassandra…” Lavellan trails off and she looks ashamed. “I do not know how to read Common.”

“What?” Cassandra says, utterly confused. She’s seen Lavellan glance through letters and edicts and scout reports before passing them off to someone else like Dorian, Leliana, or Solas. She must have read them sooner or later.

“I know numbers and I can recognize the shapes of the major words,” Lavellan says, her face hot with her shame. “It is enough for me to understand the bare minimum from trade documents when my clan visits a city and attends their markets. But I never learned individual letters. I learned Elvhen instead.” She lifts her hands up to make air quotation marks as she continues, “I ‘read’ but it is not truly reading. Novels… Novels would be beyond me.”

“Not yet,” Cassandra says stubbornly. Determination flashes in her eyes as she insists, “I will teach you and we will read. Together.”

“I am not opposed to it,” Lavellan answers slowly. “But aren’t you busy, Cassandra?”

“Not for you,” Cassandra promises. “Never for you.”

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Lavellan says quietly. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment before she opens them with a renewed spark in her eyes. “Tell me more about romance novels then since I have never read one.”

“Oh, they are _wonderful_ ,” Cassandra gushes as she strokes Lavellan’s hair once more. It’s a habit that’s starting to grow on her, and she detangles the knots at the ends of Lavellan’s hair with her fingernails as she continues, “They depict love in a true way, something that is pure and unfiltered. Passion and romance and faith in the other partner no matter what happens.”  
“Is that the kind of romance you want?” Lavellan asks.

“...Yes,” Cassandra finally says. “I want a man who… Sweeps me off my feet, who gives me flowers and reads me poetry by candlelight. I want the ideal, but I can never have it.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Lavellan, look at me,” Cassandra says. Her voice is tired as she says the truth that she knows is true. “I am a warrior. I am blunt and difficult and self-righteous and rough in all the wrong places. There is no man who can love me the way I want to be loved. My heart yearns for all of these things, but I know it will never happen. Maybe that’s why I read all these novels. I live vicariously through them.”

Lavellan reaches her hands up, up, up, until she cups Cassandra’s face with both hands. “You are worthy of love, Cassandra,” she declares. “And whoever insists this… This silly, false idea is a fool.”

Cassandra tries to turn away, but Lavellan’s grip keeps her eyes trained on Lavellan herself. In a vague attempt to try and change the subject, she tries, “Then what is romance like in your clan?”

Surprise lines itself on Lavellan’s face, and she carefully sets her hands down. Cassandra’s cheeks feel colder with the absence of Lavellan’s touch, but she leans in closer to hear Lavellan better. The elf sighs and murmurs, “My clan? I suppose… It is not like your novels, I don’t think, but there are similar aspects. We love fiercely, and we love deeply. However, no matter what we do, the fact is that we are all nomads. Survival is difficult. Life is fleeting, and we do our best to live to the best of our ability.” Lavellan’s voice shifts distinctly into a more melancholic tone, and Cassandra remembers how Lavellan looked during the first days at Haven. Gaunt, thin, worn out with a life of hunger and survival. Even now, Lavellan clings onto habits that are surely from her days in her clan whether that be constantly foraging or chewing mint and elfroot in her mouth on long journeys. Lavellan shrugs and says, “I do not think some of your romance novels would work out in a clan. We do not have high towers to climb for our loves, but you could climb up a tree. I do not think that would be very impressive to a lover though. And for us, it does not matter what gender or what clan your love is from. If the two love each other and are willing to commit, then they are bonded mates. If one person is from a different clan, it can strengthen the relationship between those clans as well.” Lavellan pauses and adds, “Ah, there are situations where bonding does not work out, and in that case, they seek the Keeper for counsel. Some mates split up and depart with little bitterness. Other times, they resolve their issue and life moves on.”

“Do _shemlen_ have the same attitude? Do you?” Lavellan suddenly asks.

“For humans as a whole? I think it is similar, and nobles use marriages to make alliances and treaties. It's a much more formal, loveless affair though,” Cassandra says with a touch of dejection. Lavellan nods with understanding, and Cassandra coughs slightly before she continues, “And for me personally? I always pictured a prince or a knight in shining armor in my head. Never a woman. But the expectation of betrothal was a common fear of mine before I left the Pentaghasts to become a Seeker.”

Something in Lavellan’s expression falls, but Lavellan pulls herself together to quietly say, “I see.” She lets go of Cassandra’s hand and props herself up and out of Cassandra’s lap to start gathering up her things. “Let us return to Skyhold then. Thank you for your comfort, and thank you for indulging me,” she says in a brisk manner. “I will do my best as Inquisitor.”

She folds up the furs and the bedroll and tucks it away into a small rucksack. Lavellan checks for any other thing before she shoulders the bag and sets off with long, efficient strides. Cassandra stands there, utterly confused as to how and why the situation shifted like that. When Lavellan gets too far, Cassandra hurries to trail after her and stares at Lavellan’s stiff, perfectly postured, and retreating back. A strange feeling knots in her throat and it feels hard to swallow. Cassandra runs through their conversation again, wondering where she went wrong. Did she accidentally offend Lavellan with some clan-related question? Was Lavellan hurt by something she said? Was she insensitive about the magic issue? Cassandra combs through her thoughts over and over again, and in the end, she’s unable to shake the strange feeling that continually throbs in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all elvhen is from [project elvhen by fenxshiral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848?view_full_work=true)
> 
> translations (from project elvhen):  
>  **mi'nas'sal'in** n. the intense feeling of missing something or someone that is deeply important or personal. similar to brazilian "saudade", literally "the knife again in my soul."  
>  **etunash** n. shit.  
>  **nas'falon** n. soul mate; unlike english and other languages, soul mate / nas’falon does not automatically denote a romantic or sexual relationship. it instead denotes a relationship where two people are so incredible close, so incredibly devoted to each other and incredibly inseparable, that it is as if they share a soul. in the elvhen context, you only ever have one nas’falon, one soul mate.  
>  **nas'taron** n. twin soul
> 
> and uh, for some final thoughts:  
> 1\. my lavellan has a twin brother + i've got lots of thoughts abt the emotional connection between twins. i think her twin brother qualifies as a "nas'falon" better than cassandra + in the end, there will still be fundamental differences between cassandra and lavellan (ie: attitudes on the chantry, on magic, etc) that set them apart farther than her brother will.  
> 2\. cassandra,,,,, i think at this point, she's still wrestling with her beliefs + she hasn't rly considered what her feelings on lavellan truly are? she's mistaking her romantic feelings for lavellan for platonic + misunderstanding all the _ridiculous_ flirting lavellan is doing,,,, hence, the Slow Burn™  
> 3\. i swear to god that my chapters are progressively getting longer and longer,,,  
> 4\. solas is singlehandedly responsible for ruining all the jokes and comments lavellan makes in elvhen by translating them for everyone else  
> 5\. leliana loved warden surana, and cullen Did Not Have Nice Things To Say in the tower during dao + leliana still holds a grudge abt that. leliana also knows the shit that went down during the gallows (bc what does she not know???) and that only intensifies her grudge against cullen. Cullen Knows This As Well.  
> 6\. lavellan's very good at pretending whether it be pretending to read or pretending to be fine.  
> 7\. i love me some cameos from other inquisitor origins (ex: the cadashes)


	5. cast yourself far and wide

Cassandra misses Lavellan.

It’s not like she’s far away. In fact, Cassandra sees Lavellan almost daily. However, Lavellan does not stop to give Cassandra a soft squeeze of her hand or a gentle hug. Cassandra never realized how much Lavellan relied on gestures of touch before now, and without it, she feels bereft of something precious.  The absence feels strange and alien to her.

Lavellan does not take Cassandra out as frequently either. Instead, she relies on Blackwall’s shield and Iron Bull’s axe when she needs a warrior. Cassandra doesn’t argue with it; it makes sense to take Blackwall out when Lavellan plans to search for Grey Warden relics, and it makes sense to take Iron Bull when Lavellan plans to sort out business on the Storm Coast with mercenaries and whatnot. It makes _sense_ , and it only makes Cassandra feel like the irrational, illogical one. After all, if she wished to talk with Lavellan, she should simply approach her and start up a conversation.

But she doesn’t.

Cassandra doesn’t know how to untangle the deep knot of emotion lying still and dead silent in the middle of her chest anymore. Lavellan would know. At least Lavellan could deal with emotions far better than Cassandra ever could. She shuts her eyes and pretends like everything is alright. Avoiding Lavellan becomes an art that she reluctantly improves at.

Normally, she eats breakfast outside in the courtyard, sometimes in the gazebo. However, Lavellan has a penchant for making her rounds and checking in on as many people as she can during the mornings. So instead, Cassandra eats her breakfast at the crowded public dining tables in the main commons. She grabs a plate and mindlessly scoops some food out of the buffet-style breakfast several people have set up. Cassandra shuffles over to the least crowded table and chooses a spot at the very end to eat her breakfast in absolute misery.

“What’s gotten your underclothes in a twist?” a brash voice suddenly says behind her.

Cassandra blinks her eyes open and twists around to see Sera standing behind her, a confused expression on her face instead of the usual mischievous one. “Nothing,” Cassandra grumbles before she turns back and shoves one more mouthful of eggs in her mouth. She frowns as she chews her breakfast. She hears Sera let out a distinctly annoyed sound, and the elf swings her leg over to straddle the long bench beside the wooden dining table in the commons.

“Come on, you’re wearing this _terrible_ sobby pity-me face right now,” Sera snorts. She considers Cassandra’s countenance for a moment before she relents, “Alright, you’re frowning, and you always frown in the mornings, and yeah, mornings can be _shit_ , but you’ve had that face for so long.”

Cassandra swallows and glares at Sera as she takes a gulp of water. Then, she retorts, “I do _not_ have a ‘sobby pity-me face.’ I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sera shrugs, “I’m just saying.” She leans in closer to whisper, “Listen, you ever want a drink, hit me up. I’ve got a secret stash behind the bar that might even go harder than Bull’s stuff. It’s okay, people get rejected sometimes. You move on with life after that. Buy some new underclothes, fight a couple o’things to get the stress worked out, and play a prank on someone if you need to.” She gives Cassandra a brisk pat on the shoulder and says, “It’s okay. Everyone falls a little in love with Inky at some point or later. You’re not the only one, Seeker.” Then, she bounds out of the commons, almost bumping into three people on her tumultuous way out.

Cassandra gapes, trying to parse Sera’s words in her face. She swallows down the rest of her food as quickly as she can and deposits her plate and utensils in the dish bin with haste. Her mind circles around and around Sera’s words, and her feet slowly take her in the direction of Lavellan’s quarters.

 _Everyone falls a little in love with Inky at some point or later_.

Was she in love with Lavellan? Absolutely impossible. Cassandra casts her thoughts far and wide, trawling through her memories like a fisherman reeling in his nets. Every memory of Lavellan is warm and welcome in her mind’s eye. Even the nastier memories — wounds gaping open, blood staining Lavellan’s cheek — leave Cassandra grateful that Lavellan is still alive, still present, still _here._ The last night at Haven is still strong enough in her memory to ease her heart enough. At least Lavellan is still here. At least Lavellan survived.

Cassandra wonders if this is love: this deep-seated loyalty, the warmth in her chest, the memory of Lavellan’s touch. It’s not the fire and sparks that the novels say love is. This doesn’t feel like burning sexual desire. That’s what _Swords and Shields_ says love is. But this… This feels like a softer kind. Surely that had to be friendship?

Cassandra thinks so deeply on this matter that she almost slams into the Inquisitor’s door. She’s already here, and Cassandra stares at her feet, feeling almost betrayed at her own speed. Now that she’s finally here, Cassandra starts to turn away, to turn back. The sound of the door creaking stops her in her tracks though.

“Cassandra?”

Cassandra turns back around with excruciating slowness and a blush burning across her face. “Oh, hello, Inquisitor,” she stammers out.

Lavellan cocks her head, and her lips twist into a small frown. “You know I do not like titles,” she admonishes. Her gaze skitters away from Cassandra’s face, and she fidgets with her fingers as she says, “I was planning on going to the War Room, but…”

“No, no,” Cassandra hastily says. “Go to the War Room. My business is inconsequential, Inquistor, go right ahead.” She winces as the title slips out of her lips again, and she notices the way Lavellan recoils from it.

Lavellan’s expression hardens and she reaches out to grasp Cassandra’s hands as she insists, “No, your business is always important to me, Cassandra.”

The touch of Lavellan’s hand against hers is foreign but _welcome_. Lavellan sucks in a tiny inhale of breath and pulls her hand away, but Cassandra reaches out to hold her hand. Her fingers brush over the calluses on Lavellan’s palm, and Cassandra says, “Thank you, Lavellan. That… That means a lot to me. If you are not busy, if… If things do not require your attention, then I would love to spend some time with you.”

Lavellan’s breath hitches in her throat before she breaks into a wide, soft smile. She tugs Cassandra closer, and to Cassandra’s surprise, she pulls with a force far harder than she expects. Cassandra loses her balance and lurches forward, falling straight into Lavellan’s arms. Even though Lavellan is a full head shorter than Cassandra, the elf catches her securely in her arms and props her up. Cassandra regains her balance, but Lavellan buries her face in Cassandra’s blouse and murmurs, “I have not seen you in a while, _lethallan_. How have you been?”

Cassandra’s heartbeat turns erratic, and she swears she can feel it skip a beat with every other word that Lavellan whispers on her chest. Now _this_ is something she read about. Page 23, chapter 2 of _Swords and Shields_. The Knight-Captain feels her own heart skip a beat when she looks at her Guardsman, and when Cassandra looks down at Lavellan in her arms, she knows that there must be something more than this. Half of her wishes she wore her armor; at least she feels more comfortable and secure in that. The other half of her throws every blessing she can think of to the Maker and Blessed Andraste for her outfit choice of the day. She can actually feel Lavellan’s warmth and touch with more acuity through fabric compared to leather and metal. Still, one thought threads throughout every other in her mind.

She loves Lavellan.

Maker’s breath, _she loves Lavellan_.

Lavellan pulls away and blinks at her owlishly before asking, “What did you want to talk about?”

 _Maker take her,_ she has nothing in her mind other than the revelation that she loves Lavellan. She can’t _say_ that out loud, especially if Lavellan doesn’t reciprocate it. She combs through her thoughts and tries to think of something to say. “Your reading lessons,” she ends up blurting out.

Lavellan laces her fingers with Cassandra’s hand, and Cassandra feels her cheeks heat up. She can feel the heat extend all the way to her ears. Cassandra dearly hopes that Lavellan doesn’t look back as she tugs Cassandra into her rooms.

“Come inside,” she chirps. “Where do you want to sit? There is a desk over there, a bed, and a thing called a _chaise longue_ that Vivienne insistes I have.” Lavellan lets go of Cassandra’s hand to prod the fabric of the chaise dubiously. “I think we have matching ones. I do not think I need it though. I do not think I need any of this.”

Cassandra takes the opportunity to survey Lavellan’s quarters. Despite the half-finished repairs, the rooms are expansive and wide. There are multiple balconies, and all of them have their doors thrown wide open to let as much air in. The view from up here is astounding, and Cassandra drifts closer to one to see the infinite sky and the craggy mountain peaks surrounding Skyhold. There are a few pieces of furniture: the desk, bed, and chaise that Lavellan mentioned. However, Cassandra notices a small, ragged, and utterly familiar bedroll on the floor tucked up beside a pile of sleeping furs.

“Lavellan.”

“Yes?”

“Have you been sleeping on the bed?” Cassandra says incredulously. She paces around the large, four-poster bed to stare at the bedroll. It looks well-used with the blanket and furs carefully tucked and moved to make a slight divot that would fit Lavellan. The bed itself looks immaculate with all the sheets tucked in and the pillows artfully fluffed and arranged at the headboard.

Lavellan follows after her and snorts, “No. Why would I sleep on it?”

Cassandra whirls around and says, “Lavellan. Beds are made for sleeping in.”

Lavellan makes a face at the bed and complains, “But Cassandra, it is so very big. It feels cold and lonely to sleep there.” She gestures to her pile of furs and continues, “My bedroll is snug and cozy, especially with the furs.” She clears her throat, and with the most serious tone and voice she can muster up, she says solemnly, “Cassandra, I could drown in that bed.”

“With what?!” Cassandra sputters.

“Too much fabric,” Lavellan responds as she reaches over to tug a corner of the sheets near the foot of the bed. Layers of sheets come untucked from that corner without including the comforter, the throw blanket, and embroidered quilt.

“Lavellan,” Cassandra sighs. “You have a pile of furs beside your bedroll.”

“Furs are different than the layers of fabric on this bed,” Lavellan insists with a stubborn pout. “And that does not change the fact that this bed is too big.” She exhales out before tucking each layer of the bed back in its place. “Perhaps I am too used to sleeping under the sky or in an aravel with my brother and grandmother. I like sleeping in our tent and bedrolls whenever we go out on missions and adventures more than sleeping in this bed.”

Cassandra looks back at the open balconies and shivers as a fresh breeze of mountain air swirls into the room. She’ll admit that the room smells clean and fresh: like the mountains and snow. And at night, the view of the night stars must be incredible especially at this height. She glances at Lavellan and says, “You know, you’re the Inquisitor. You can request a new bed, and we would get you one as soon as possible.”

Lavellan gasps, “No! Josephine picked this bed for me! And this desk with the pens and pots of ink! Vivienne picked this long, strange, Orlesian chair for me too. I cannot return or discard their gifts like that. I do not want to hurt their feelings.”

“I think the fact that you’re sleeping on the floor will hurt them more,” Cassandra wryly says as she runs a hand through her hair.

Lavellan sidles up to her with a classically _Lavellan_ smirk. “That is why you are going to keep my secret,” she says softly, almost singing the words with a lilting voice.

Cassandra snorts at that. “When did I ever say that I would?” she wonders out loud.

Lavellan leans in closer and uses Cassandra’s shoulder as a support while she stands on her tip-toes. Close to Cassandra’s ear, she whispers, _“Sathan, lethallan_ , it will be our secret.” She huffs out a small laugh, and the puff of air tickles Cassandra’s skin. Her proximity is almost intimately comfortable, and her touch is eased with months and months of constant exposure to it whether it be in a tent or by the river or in a cave. Cassandra’s heart skips another beat as Lavellan stays a moment too close in silence. It is a moment that she both welcomes and curses because it starts the blush running across her cheeks and ears again. Then, Lavellan pulls away with a dancing glint of mirth in her eyes. “Now, you said something about reading lessons?”

Cassandra is now 100% sure that Inquisitor Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, First to the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, will be the absolute _death_ of her.

But as Cassandra writes out the alphabet with Lavellan’s pens and ink, she sees the way Lavellan’s eyes latch onto each shape with the kind of intensity Cassandra’s used to seeing on the battlefield. Lavellan is quick to catch on and with only a couple repetitions, she can write the entire alphabet and string together several of them to create words and sentences.

“How do you learn this fast?” Cassandra breathes out as she watches Lavellan write.

Lavellan shrugs, “Like I said, I recognize shapes easily, and I know the shapes of some words already. I learned how to read and write in Elvhen, so I can handle a pen or pencil. I know enough to understand trade documents, and now, it is a matter of sounding the letters out.” She bites her lower lip as she concentrates on the next word. “But Elvhen is simple to sound out. Every syllable sounds and writes down the same. You simply put them together in the correct order, and context fills in the rest. Common has… Strange combinations of letters.” She taps on the word “because” with the end of her pen and frowns, “The A and the U together make no sense together. You could write this much more simply by using B, E, C, U, and Z.”

Lavellan does have a point. Spelling can be an absolute nightmare when it comes to certain words, and Cassandra is at a loss.

Following that first lesson, Lavellan insists that they continue their reading lessons with haste. They read together by candlelight after the day’s work is done. Lavellan always lights the candles around them with the tip of her finger, and she settles down beside Cassandra. She tucks a blanket around Cassandra’s shoulders, wraps a blanket around herself and hugs a pillow close to her chest as she waits for her newest challenge expectantly.

The first book Cassandra brings was a book of transcribed Dalish legends. She hopes that it would be enough motivation for Lavellan to successfully complete it, but she underestimated Lavellan’s tenacity. The Herald consumes the book within days, trying different pronunciations of letters in her tongue before settling on the right one. After finishing it entirely with Cassandra on one night, she huffily proceeds to retell Cassandra _her_ clan’s version of each tale. Fen’Harel’s slow arrow, Andruil’s Great Hunt, Mythal’s moons, and Elgar’nan and the sun. All of the stories have the same elements, but Lavellan tells them with a slightly different twist or ending.

The next book is on Inquisitor Ameridan. When Mother Giselle suggests that the Inquisitor begin reading the Chant of Light, Cassandra instantly knows what Lavellan will think of that. At best, Lavellan will read it sullenly. At worst, Lavellan will throw it out the window. Cassandra’s never seen how far Lavellan could throw something, but she is sure that Lavellan could lob into some hidden mountain canyon from one of her multiple balconies. Instead, Cassandra chooses a book on the former Inquisition and the Seekers of Truth, and specifically, a book on Inquisitor Ameridan, Commander of the Seekers of Truth. Granted, there’s only one or two pages worth of information on him, but Cassandra considers it to be good enough.

Lavellan wrinkles her nose when Cassandra brings her the book — Lavellan already recognizes the Chantry symbol on the spine of the book — but her eyes light up when she discovers that Ameridan was an elf of the Dales. She reads it in a wistful tone, and at the end of the book, she looks up and says, “He disappeared. After all that… Effort. He disappeared. He led _shemlen_ and elves alike, and he just… Disappeared.”

“He did,” Cassandra confirms. “No one really knows why.”

Lavellan curls in on herself and muses, “Suppose I disappear? After doing something great? Perhaps after we defeat Corypheus, after we stop this mess across Thedas, I will disappear just like Ameridan.”

“No,” Cassandra suddenly says, her voice sharpened with alarm. It even surprises herself, really, with the way the word spills out of her mouth. “No,” she repeats in a more hushed tone. “Do not. I-I would miss you. Dearly.”

Lavellan pauses, eyebrows raised high with surprise. Softly, Lavellan replies, “I would miss you too, _arasha_ .” She enunciates each word clearly, and although Cassandra can’t read the emotion flickering in Lavellan’s eyes very well, she knows Lavellan enough to know that this is the sincerest Lavellan has ever been. And _arasha_? That’s a new word that Cassandra’s never heard before. She doesn’t want to ruin the moment by asking, so she impulsively takes one corner of her blanket and wraps it around Lavellan’s shoulders. They’re pressed close together now that the blanket encircles them. It’s warmer than usual, and Cassandra pretends that’s the reason for the blush crossing over her face again. Cassandra feels Lavellan stiffen under the first brush of her fingers against Lavellan’s shoulders, but then, Lavellan melts into her touch and nestles in closer. Lavellan fits perfectly beside Cassandra with her head leaning against Cassandra’s shoulder and one leg almost on Cassandra’s lap.

Reading lessons mostly become just that: a comfortable night by the fire with soft blankets, mugs of tea, and a slowly increasing pile of books.

Cassandra also takes up reading lessons on her own albeit a different kind. She sidles into the library one day, inching closer and closer to the shelf where Solas is standing. He’s perusing through several new additions to the library, and she debates over how to start the conversation when he suddenly says, “Seeker, it is good to see you.” Solas does not look up from the book he’s paging through, but Cassandra’s more grateful for the lack of eye contact.

“Hello, Solas,” Cassandra says. She fidgets in her place before she blurts out, “Solas, may I ask you a favor?”

Solas pauses before he flips a page and asks, “What is it?”

“Would you teach me some elvhen?”

The uncomfortable pressure grows in Cassandra as Solas shuts the book and slides it back on the shelf. He raises his gaze to match her, quirking an eyebrow with some surprise. “What brought this on all of a sudden?” he inquires as he studies her face.Cassandra’s sure he can see all the trepidation that flutters in her mind.  
“I am… Interested,” she replies evasively. She doesn’t want to say the true reason out loud, as if it would degrade it.

A mischievous expression slides across Solas as he leans against the bookshelf behind him. “And why don’t you ask the Inquisitor?” he muses. “I’m sure she’d be happy to teach you some of her Dalish Elvhen, especially since I hear that you are teaching her how to read.”

“How does word get around that fast?” Cassandra mutters. “It’s just some reading. Nothing more.”

Solas chuckles, “Only the inner circle knows. And Seeker, do not underestimate the Iron Bull’s ability to find out secrets. He overheard you two reading together when he stopped by the Inquisitor’s quarters to drop off something. No one else will know.”

“Good,” Cassandra. She shifts her feet before she hesitantly asks, “Then… Will you?”

Solas smiles, real and true and genuine, as he says, “I would be glad to teach you some basic phrases, Seeker. However, my dialect may be more formal than what the Inquisitor tends to use.”

“How much more formal can it be?” Cassandra wonders.

Solas snorts now, and he gestures over to the window in the general direction of the Inquisitor’s quarters. “I think an example in Common would be the difference between ‘cease and desist’ and ‘stop before I set your ass on fire.’”

Cassandra gasps, absolutely aghast, “ _No._ She did _not_ yell that out loud. In Val Royeaux. For everyone in the vicinity to hear.”

That particular moment was after some noble muttered something disparaging about elves while Lavellan, Sera, and Solas were buying something in a Val Royeaux shop. Cassandra was busy perusing the books on sale to really hear what the noble said, but she remembers hearing Lavellan sharply say something in Elvhen that was excessively loud and almost got them kicked out of the merchant’s shop. Lavellan reluctantly translated her words to mean “cease and desist” and Solas somewhat smoothed the situation over, but now, Cassandra’s just horrified to know what Lavellan actually meant. She’s also fairly sure that Lavellan really would have set that noble’s… Posterior on fire if the noble didn’t stop. Josephine already gave Lavellan a lecture about manners and etiquette in public while Lavellan sat on her office floor, roasting chestnuts with a small flame in her palm. Cassandra cannot imagine how Josephine would react to such a diplomatic failure.

“She did,” Solas confirms. “However, I doubt the noble and the merchant understood her and took her translation afterwards for granted.”

Cassandra is deeply horrified and deeply thankful that Josephine doesn’t know the true translation.

“Well then, we shall begin our lessons tomorrow morning. You may come _after_ you finish your breakfast with Lavellan,” Solas says as he turns to pull a different book from the shelf beside him.

“How do you know all of these things?!” Cassandra sputters. Almost every morning, she eats a simple and light breakfast with Lavellan in the gazebo. It’s a quiet and quick breakfast, but the company makes it worthwhile.

Solas softly laughs before he answers, “The gazebo is a public place, and it is good to see that Lavellan is eating more. I shall see you tomorrow, Seeker.”

Cassandra does not take well to elvhen lessons as easily as Lavellan with her reading lessons. Elvhen relies too much on context for Cassandra to get a grasp on listening skills, and the syllables are far more sibilant and soft compared to Common or Nevarran for Cassandra to say anything without a harsher accent. Solas almost chokes on his water after Cassandra mispronounces a word badly enough to mean something sexual. However, she finishes her lessons knowing basic greetings and phrases. She still can’t comprehend the syntactic structure of the language or understand written Elvhen at all, but she counts it as a victory.

Lavellan becomes more absent than not from Skyhold as she travels further from Skyhold. On her last night at Skyhold before a mission, Lavellan confides, “I do not want to leave, Cassandra.” She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders and slumps. Her gaze is unfocused as she stares into the empty night through the balcony windows. “I am tired of these rulers and leaders and Chantry sisters thinking I am some sort of Herald,” she says. She glances over at Cassandra, and her lips quirk into a wry smile. “And then, they think they can manipulate their god’s Herald into doing all sorts of things for them.”

“That’s the nature of nobility,” Cassandra murmurs as she tucks a wisp of Lavellan’s hair behind her ear. “But for what it’s worth, I believe you are an excellent leader. Look at what you have done already.”

“But look at what we have left to do,” Lavellan counters. “And most of my accomplishments are because of what all of you are doing. I would not be able to do all of this without you.” Her voice hitches and hastily, she adds, “And Leliana and Josephine and everyone else.”

Cassandra suddenly leans in to cup Lavellan’s face in her hands. It’s a gesture that Lavellan usually initiates, and judging from Lavellan’s sharp intake of breath, she’s surprised by it too. Cassandra looks deep into Lavellan’s eyes and promises, “I’ve said this before, but I will always be there to support you. You are doing your best, and that’s as much as we can ask from you. You are giving your all to this cause.”

 _And I love you for that and more,_ Cassandra thinks. It’s one of the sentiments she wishes she had the confidence to say out loud.

Lavellan looks at her, glances at the hands cupping her cheeks, and flicks her gaze back to Cassandra. She lifts her hands slowly to mimic Cassandra’s gesture, and her thumb accidentally brushes against Cassandra’s lips. Cassandra’s lips part instinctually, and she knows the motion wasn’t missed by Lavellan. Lavellan’s lips twitch up into a tender smile. “I feel the same of you,” she softly admits. “I will miss you while I am gone from Skyhold. Stay strong and stay safe, _arasha_. I will come back as soon as I can.”

Lavellan departs the next morning on the back of her favorite hart, and Dorian, Sera, and Blackwall follow after her on horseback. There are a group of Venatori in the Exalted Plains that cannot go ignored, and Cassandra knows that the people Lavellan chose are the best for the job. Dorian knows the habitual patterns of his fallen countrymen, Sera has her network in Orlais, and Blackwall has a better knowledge of Orlais based on his history with Warden operations in Orlais.

Varric nudges her as Lavellan leaves and says, “Don’t look so sad, Seeker. You look like you’re watching a funeral proceeding or something. Birdie knows what she’s doing; she’ll be fine.”

Cassandra sighs, “I would feel more comfortable if I went with her.”

“Of course you do,” Varric chuckles. “Lighten up, Seeker, and find some other hobbies to do with your time. And no, before you ask, I have _not_ finished the newest chapter of _Swords and Shields_ , so find a different hobby other than that.”

With Lavellan’s absence, Cassandra fills her empty time with work. Cullen always needs her help with training the recruits who pour in through the gates, eager for a war that they barely know. Cassandra looks at them and she cannot fathom ever seeing them in a war, yet that is what she trains them for. Her reputation becomes more infamous than Cullen’s within the ranks, and her training days are renown for their difficulty. Cassandra knows it’s for their own good though. It almost reminds her of her own days as a trainee for the Seekers, and some of the girls among the recruits remind her of herself. _Time flies_ , she thinks after a brief moment of introspection. Then, she shakes herself out of her thoughts and resumes her work.

She continues to track the unfinished high profile cases for the Seekers as well. Leliana diverts some of her scouts to Cassandra, and Cassandra sends them out to places like Emprise du Lion or the Western Approach to hunt down the locations of various men. She also tries to track down the missing Seekers and sends some out to investigate leads in Ferelden.

However, among all of her work, Cassandra finds comfort in using the gifts Lavellan gave her. The roses that Lavellan brought her are still in their vase, and the old roses are all dried and preserved carefully in bundles or between old book pages. She uses beeswax candles that Lavellan made for her to light her room, and the sleeping fur tossed over her bed is one that Lavellan made herself. It’s a small thought, but Cassandra realizes that she’s never given Lavellan a gift. That thought alone makes Cassandra set down her pen, blow out her candles, and go sprinting out of her room.

Somehow, her feet lead her to the tavern. Lavellan _hates_ the painted sign on the Herald’s Rest, but that sign only reminds Cassandra of the complete lack of gifts she’s given Lavellan. She scans the room. Maryden is in her usual spot, singing a new song for the night, and Krem is sitting on top of a barrel while drinking with a few other Chargers. However, the person she’s looking for is across the tavern by the the bar. She hurries over as fast as she can.

“Bull?”

The Iron Bull sets down his massive mug and props his elbow on the bar counter. “Yeah?” he says with a raise of his eyebrow. Cabot, the bartender almost gets hit in the head with Bull’s massive horns as he turns to face Cassandra.

Cassandra glances at the bar and the massive mug _that cannot possibly be empty_ and asks, “Are you busy?”

Iron Bull blinks before he lifts the mug up and chugs it. Cassandra watches with wide eyes as he gulps down the entirety of the drink before slamming it down on the counter and wiping his mouth. “Well, yeah, now I am,” Bull says with a shrug. “What do you need? Come on, have a seat.” He pats the bar counter with his other hand, and Cassandra gingerly goes over to sit down.

“I’m trying to give someone a gift, but I’m not sure what to get them,” Cassandra explains as she wrings her hands.

Iron Bull hums a little bit before he says decisively, “Boss likes it when people make her things, food especially.”

“Wh-what?” Cassandra stammers. “When did I ever say that I was giving a gift to Lavellan?”

The Iron Bull flashes her a quick wink and says, “I’m a people person; I just know. Also, Lavellan loves fruit. Peaches, plums, grapes, anything. When Josephine gave her a pineapple and a couple of coconuts from Rivain, she brought it to me and Krem to crack it open. She almost choked by eating them too fast.” Bull taps his chin thoughtfully as he adds, “She also likes useful things. She mentioned that she wanted a cloak or jacket with more pockets and weatherproof weaving once. She was also looking at some Dalish-inscribed leather for leg wrappings the last time we passed by a Dalish clan in Ferelden. But then again, I couldn’t tell if she was looking at them to buy for herself or to buy as gifts for other people.”

Cassandra doesn’t know how everyone seems to know about her… Crush? Infatuation? Adoration? No matter what the label may be, she doesn’t understand how _everyone_ knows about it. She thinks she’s being subtle, but after being faced with all of these comments from _four people now_ — Cole, Sera, Solas, and Bull — she has to reconsider her actions and public attitude now. “I… Will keep that in mind,” she finally says. “Thank you, Bull.”

“No problem, Seeker,” Bull says easily. He waves Cabot over for another drink before saying, “If you ever want more ideas, let me know.”

Cabot pours nearly an entire bottle of alcohol into the Iron Bull’s mug, and Cassandra wonders how his liver can take it. But now, she wonders if she should get a drink too. The prospect of having everyone know about her crush is terrifying, and she’s concerned about the fact that Lavellan might know about it too. She feels hesitant to say it out loud, and she doesn’t want Lavellan to know about it either. After all, Lavellan probably considers to her to be nothing more than a close friend in the Inquisition and not as a potential romantic partner.  Cassandra groans out loud with the stress of the thought and waves Cabot over for a drink. Work and gift-buying can wait for one night.

The next morning, Cassandra wakes up to the sound of a raven tapping on her window. It’s an erratic beat that grows louder and louder until Cassandra groans and shuffles out of bed. The raven perches on the window’s edge as it cocks its head almost mockingly at Cassandra. She narrows her eyes at it as it raises its left leg. A small piece of paper is tied to it with a strand of red thread. Cassandra stares at it blankly, and it gives her an indignant caw as it waits expectantly. She opens the window to let the raven hop inside and removes the paper from its leg. The raven waits impatiently while Cassandra unfolds the paper and reads it.

_Come to the rookery. Interrogation. - L_

The “L” is written in a flourish that Cassandra recognizes too well from years of working with Leliana, and Cassandra glances around for a spare pen. A quill that Lavellan made for her is lying beside a still-open pot of ink from last night. Cassandra hurries to dip the quill in the ink — which is thankfully fresh instead of being dried-out — and scrawls down, “Be there soon. - C.” She ties the paper back to the raven’s leg and throws on some more publicly acceptable clothing and her usual set of armor.

She sprints to the library and offers a terse greeting to Solas as she ascends the spiraling stairs. The rookery is at the very top, and she passes by numerous mages. She almost slams into one and only pauses long enough to help the mage gather up his fallen papers. Finally, she arrives to Leliana’s impromptu office with panting breaths.

There’s an elf bound to a chair on the far side of the rookery whiles ravens cry out in loud, hoarse sounds that echo in the curved roof-space. Leliana paces in front of him but pauses when she hears Cassandra. Cassandra quickly makes her way over, avoiding all the bird droppings on the floor with practiced ease. Leliana gestures to the elf and says, “My scouts found him patrolling around Skyhold’s general vicinity. He won’t tell us anything more.”

Cassandra blinks and turns to look at the elf. He wears no shoes aside from Dalish leg wrappings, and vallaslin curls around the planes of his face. They’re not the same pattern as Lavellan’s, and when the elf notices her looking, he glares at her.

“I agreed to be questioned, not imprisoned,” the elf finally says. His tone is baleful at best, and he twists his lips into a thin frown.

“We _are_ questioning you,” Leliana responds. “But we are binding you to ensure that no harm comes to one of us while we ascertain your purposes and who you are. We run these investigations into all of our scouts, agents, and even members of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. We must ensure her safety as well the integrity of our organization.” Leliana gestures to Cassandra as she says, “This is Cassandra Pentaghast, a Seeker and the Right Hand of the Divine.”

“A matching pair of hands,” the elf comments. “An extra Hand will not make me change my answer.”

“What is your name?” Cassandra asks instead.

He gives her a near-feral smile — too many teeth showing, a flash of white before it snaps down into a thinly-pressed smile that barely lifts the corners of his lips — and he says, “I am Lavellan. My sister is your Herald.” He squints at the Inquisition insignia on Cassandra’s breastplate before he mutters, “But I do not know why she works for a cause that has a hairy eye as their symbol.”

“The eye is wreathed in _fire_ . The Light of the Maker and the flames of Andraste's _Sacrifice_ ,” Cassandra snaps. She already has enough of Sera mocking the Inquisition logo; she doesn’t need another elf to make fun of it, no matter how true it may be. “And our Herald is already Lavellan. What is your name?”

“My name,” he enunciates, slowly and clearly. “is Lavellan because I am of Clan Lavellan. I was a clan hunter and scout. I am the twin brother of the First to Clan Lavellan. I came to find her after news of Haven. We are both Lavellans. If she has not chosen to inform you of her name, then that is her prerogative.”

Cassandra looks over to Leliana and asks, “Lavellan isn’t her name?”

“It is,” Leliana sighs. “But she refuses to tell me her first name. I thought she must have at least told you?”

Hurt stains Cassandra’s expression as she says, “No, she just told me that her name was Lavellan. Nothing else other than that.”

The elf snorts, “Do not take it personally. My clan treats our first names as precious things. If she told you a first name, it likely would have been a false one to protect her true name. If you must differentiate us, you may call me ‘M’ and her ‘L.’ However, the fact remains that I am her twin brother who came to find her. That is the truth and only the truth.”

Leliana pretends to examine her nails, and as she does so, she asks, “And how did you get here so quickly? Curious, considering how you are from a Dalish clan and have little access to news in traditional methods.”

He bares his teeth as he reluctantly explains, “I am her _twin brother_ . I feel her pain and she feels mine. I _felt_ the flames on her hand, the tug of the Fade on her palm.” Cassandra doesn’t know why he would admit something like that. It seems like a vulnerability, and based on his agitation, he knows it. This Lavellan seems almost exactly like the Lavellan at Hvaen: desperate to the beating hum of freedom. She examines M’s face and sees the striking similarities. His dark hair and dark eyes, his vallaslin that stretches over the same places on Lavellan’s face, the freckles that cover his nose from too many summer-sun days.

“You do look like her,” Leliana comments. “Peculiarly so. Same facial features, similar bone structure. My scouts have not found any information thus far that discredits his story, and I have an account of a witness who saw him traveling across the Hinterlands to get here. It coincides with his alibi. What about you, Cassandra?”

“I believe he is telling the truth,” she slowly says. She circles around him to loosen the ropes tying him down, and she says, “She’s talked about you before. Lavellan, that is. She called you her twin soul, said you had some sort of special bond.”

That makes him smile — the only time he breaks from his weary, thorny expression — and he comments lightly, “I hope she did not say anything too terrible about me.”

“She praised you,” Cassandra answers. “Quite highly as well.” That makes M’s smile change into a broad grin, and Cassandra sees the striking resemblance between him and her Lavellan.

Leliana steps closer to M and says firmly, “I’ll have her confirm when she arrives back. But for now, welcome to Skyhold, M. Time and secrets will tell if you really are who you say you are.”

M springs to his feet almost immediately when he feels the pressure of the ropes fade. He shakes the remnants of the rope from his wrists and stretches them before he glances up and asks with shuttered eyes, “Where is she? My sister?”

“In the Exalted Plains,” Cassandra answers. “She just left a few days ago.”

He twists his hands into a familiar shape — something Lavellan shapes out with her hands frequently — and says, “Then I just missed her. I thought… I thought from the strong pull that she would still be here.” He huffs out a bitter laugh and shrugs, “Then I will wait for her when she returns.”

Leliana raises a hand to stop him and asks, “And you said that you were a hunter? A scout? Your talents could be useful for the Inquisition.” She gives him a meaningful glance and says, “Every person here earns their place in some way, shape, or form. We have many that are hungry and resources that need replenishing. I would be happy to conduct a test of your skills and file a requisition to provide you with the necessary materials for you to do your work.”

He inclines his head and says, “Thank you, but I have my own bow and arrows. I require only materials for making new arrows.”

Cassandra and Leliana run a skill test for him, but it’s rather uneventful. Leliana only asks him to shoot several targets before sending him out with a hunting party. The other scouts’ gaze bore into the back of M’s neck as he shoots one bulls-eye after another. Cassandra watches as Leliana studies him with wary eyes. She doesn’t think the spymaster fully trusts him or at least, not yet. She can’t blame her for it; Lavellan is absent and cannot corroborate his claim. And if there is one thing Leliana cannot stand, it is a lack of proof, a lack of evidence, a lack of truth firm and proved.

Cassandra feels much the same way, but there’s something about M’s attitude that mimics Lavellan’s so closely. He doesn’t smile as much nor does he reach out to touch and gesture as much as she does. Instead, he keeps his limbs and thoughts carefully close, and his guard is constantly up. But the way he speaks, the way he articulates thoughts follows Lavellan’s trend with an uncanniness that Cassandra can’t shake.

When Cassandra asks him about how he keeps to himself compared to Lavellan, he barks out a sharply bitter laugh. He leans in closer to Cassandra and says, “Oh, she must have felt the same as I do during her first days here. Imagine being taken by the Chantry when you are a Dalish elf and a Dalish mage at that. But the difference between my sister and I is the fact that she is far better at acting than I. Brilliantly manipulative, she is, and smiles do more for her than they ever do for me. Do not worry, Seeker. My sister does not mean any harm and most likely, is more genuine about her thoughts if she is more comfortable with you all. Trust takes time, and she has spent more of that with you than I have.” He shrugs, “And besides, my sister is not a fool. She places great care into those she trusts, and if she trusted you enough to tell you about me, then that means she trusts you greatly.”

M’s words leave a bitter aftertaste in the back of Cassandra’s mind. How much of Lavellan was real and how much was false? Did Lavellan genuinely care about her? Cassandra digs through her memory and examines each one she can find of Lavellan. She has to admit that Lavellan at the beginning was reticent and wary, but she remembers Lavellan quickly warming up to all of them. However, she notices a slight difference between Lavellan of Haven and Lavellan of Skyhold. Lavellan of Skyhold is a touch more quiet than the Lavellan she first met at Haven, but there’s a tenderness underlying Lavellan’s actions now. Of course, the Lavellan now is more battle-hardened, but Lavellan was almost _too_ cheerful at Haven. _As if she was pretending,_ Cassandra realizes. The first time Lavellan was truly tender to Cassandra was that night by the river in the Hinterlands.

She lets out a long, heavy sigh before she returns to perusing a merchant’s fruit stalls. At least she knows that Lavellan truly thinks of her as a closer friend now. _Never mind the past,_ she reasons to herself. The present was always more important than what occurred in the past, and although she can’t change anything about the past, she _can_ change the present.

The merchant points out certain fruits that are the best of his stock, and Cassandra ends up buying everything he recommends. She passes the gold over in exchange for a small burlap bag of fruit: Fereldan apples and pears, persimmons from the Free Marches, a single pomegranate and a basket of figs from Tevinter. Cassandra carefully cradles the bag in her arms as she heads back to her room; she doesn’t want them to be bruised despite the brown wrapping paper nestled between each fruit in the bag.

She passes by M who holds a full snare of rabbits in one hand and a bag full of meat and hides in the other. He has his quiver and bow strapped to his bag, and there’s still blood streaked across his skin. He inclines his head towards Cassandra in a Dalish bow, and she says, “ _Andaran atish’an,_ M.”

“Terrible pronunciation, but _andaran atish’an_ to you, Seeker,” he says with a soft snort of laughter. He nods towards the bag and says, “Good hunting?”

“Yes, the fruit fell for my traps and snares,” Cassandra says in a deadpan voice. That elicits another laugh from M, and she truly thinks that M is more like her Lavellan than he likes to pretend he is. She gives him a wry smile and says, “The merchant was more than happy to take my gold for it. Would you like some?”

M’s eyes narrow on the bag, and she can see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. However, he shakes his head and lifts his burden as a reply. “My hands are full and bloody,” he says. “I will have to accept your offer at a different time.”

Suddenly, they both hear a loud uproar near the gates. M’s ears flatten before pricking up to pick up the sound better, and his breath catches in his throat. He drops his rabbits and his bag in favor of dashing off towards the sound, ignoring Cassandra’s protests. He dodges people and slides past others in the crowd that gathers before the gates. Cassandra looks at M before glancing back at his bags with distress. She knows what this means; Lavellan is back. She swears under her breath before she drags over M’s bags and rabbits to a nearby bush. She deposits her own bag beside the snare, before she sprints off as well. She pushes people aside as she runs, uncaring of anyone’s judgement. She runs fast enough to catch up to M who’s stuck behind a crowd of people who refuse to move aside for him. With a hiss of annoyance, she snatches M’s wrist and calls out, “Move out of the way! Seeker coming through!” Her face flushes pink with embarrassment as she yells it, but she pulls M along through the narrow space the crowd makes for her.

Then, they see her.

Her hair is loose, and she is laughing, eyes merry and bright. But she looks the same as ever. Her vallaslin that marks Mythal across her brow and cheeks. Her dark eyes and hair. The freckles that cover her nose from too many summer-sun days.

M’s voice rips out from his throat, and he cries out, “ _Asa’ma’lin!”_

Lavellan turns, eyes meeting his gaze. She freezes in place, emotion flooding her expression, before she cries back, “ _Isa’ma’lin!”_ Her voice cracks as she screams the word, and she surges forward with a flare of magic sparking from her feet and hands.

They dash towards each other, catching each other in a tangle of limbs that comprise an embrace, and they laugh into each other’s skin and clothes. M giggles — a rare sound — and Lavellan laughs into his tunic, uncaring of the blood that transfers to her own clothes. They look infinitely comfortable and inseparable,platonic and familial and _familiar._

“I missed you so much, brother,” Lavellan breathes out.

“I missed you too, sister,” M replies as he buries his face into his sister’s hair.

Cassandra watches them from the sidelines, and wistful thoughts suffuse her mind. Seeing them reminds her of Anthony, and no matter how many years pass, the grief still stings her from the inside-out. She feels a warmth behind her, and Cole’s voice quietly murmurs, “Aching, grief cold and heavy in the bones, blood spilled across the ground that was never meant to be there. But he loved you, and you miss him. ”

“That is not a surprise,” she thickly says. “But he is gone and with the Maker now. There is nothing else I can do but to honor his memory.”

“He would’ve liked her,” Cole says as he finally materializes. He nods towards Lavellan, and his hat sways on his head. “He would’ve liked you and her together.”

“I don’t know how you know that,” Cassandra exhales. “But thank you.”

She watches Lavellan pull her twin towards Dorian, Sera, and Blackwall to introduce him. Now that the two are standing beside each other, Cassandra can see the striking similarities between them. They look like mirror images almost, but her Lavellan is slightly shorter and slender while M is broader and taller. Then, they all start walking back to Skyhold, and Lavellan sees Cassandra waiting by the edge. She runs over to her and flings herself towards Cassandra. She lands heavily on Cassandra, but Cassandra braces them against the impact.

 _“Lethallan_ , I missed you,” Lavellan says amidst laughter that bubbles up from her throat.

“So did I,” Cassandra agrees.

 _“Lethallan_ , is it?” a voice says dryly.

Lavellan’s expression pinches, and she says, “Ma— M, hush.”

M stands behind Lavellan with an amused look dancing across his face. “Ell,” he says, drawing out the sound of the letter L for as long as he can.

“I said, _hush_ ,” Lavellan hisses, her cheeks suffused with pink.

He folds his arms across his chest and says dramatically, “So quickly do you turn against me, sister. I have only seen you for several minutes after being apart from you for so long, and already, you snap at me.”

 _“M,”_ Lavellan sharply replies with a frown.

Dorian chuckles, “Oh, I _like_ your brother, Lavellan. M, was it? I could think of other names to call you, handsome.”

“Oh, do not even _think_ of puffing up his ego more than it already is,” Lavellan grumbles. “He does not need more people telling him that he is pretty and charming and handsome. I have had _enough_ of that from the last Arlathvhen.”

“If you wish to call me handsome, I will not stop you,” M smirks. He taps on Lavellan’s shoulder and murmurs something in Elvhen that’s too quick and relies too much on context for Cassandra to parse out. Lavellan responds indignantly and gives him a good slap on his shoulder. A smile splits M’s lips — only the second smile she’s ever seen on him — and he pulls Lavellan into a tight embrace. _“Ma nuvenin,”_ he says as he pats Lavellan’s head. That much Cassandra can understand:  _As you wish._ Lavellan’s reply is muffled, but her hand lifts up to give him another slap on the shoulder. Cassandra looks over to Solas, hoping for a translation, but Solas only gives her a cryptic and distinctly amused smile.

Lavellan catches Cassandra’s hand in one hand and holds her brother’s hand in the other. She tugs them along as they all walk back towards Skyhold, and she swings their hands in a easy rhythm. She hums a soft melody under her breath that M eventually hums along to, and they form a simply harmony together. Cassandra takes the opportunity to study Lavellan’s expression; the Inquisitor looks more relaxed and happy than she’s ever been, and Cassandra thinks she might be getting better at reading Lavellan’s expression. She hopes that Lavellan feels no need to act cheerful around her and that her joy is genuine now. Cassandra excuses herself from the pseudo-procession to retrieve her fruit, and she drops off M’s catch with the quartermaster. She’s sure that Lavellan will spend her entire day catching up with her brother, and that’s time that she doesn’t want to steal from her.

Instead, she arrives at the usual time at night with her bag and a new book. It’s _the Tale of the Champion_ by Varric, and she thinks Lavellan will find it interesting. When she knocks on the door, M opens it instead of Lavellan. He looks her up and down before he turns and calls out something in Elvhen. Once again, Cassandra privately curses her inability to learn Elvhen properly, even with official help from Solas himself.

M steps aside and allows Cassandra to step aside. Lavellan eagerly pads towards her and says, “Cassandra! _Lethallan_ , I was hoping you would come tonight. I brought you something back from the Exalted Plains!”

Cassandra chuckles, “I brought you something as well.”

Lavellan pauses in the middle of digging through her rucksack, and she tilts her head to the side. “What do you mean?” she asks blankly.

Cassandra squats down beside Lavellan and presents her with the book. It’s the best copy she could find with an embossed cover and pages with large, printed text. There’s even a couple of illustrations scattered throughout the book, and there’s no sign of Sera’s typical graffiti and doodles on it. Lavellan stares wide-eyed as Cassandra gets back up to set the fruits on Lavellan’s desk. “I heard you liked fruit,” she says sheepishly. “So I bought some apples, pears, figs, and a pomegranate. I wasn’t sure which one you would like more, so I bought them all.”

Lavellan gapes at the fruits, and slowly, she drifts over and brushes her fingertips over the fruits. She pauses at the pomegranate and asks, “And what is this again?”

“A pomegranate from Tevinter,” Cassandra supplies. “The figs over there in the basket are also from Tevinter, but I think you’ve eaten them before with Dorian. Hold on, let me cut the pomegranate open for you.” She pulls out her pocket knife and deftly slices the fruit open to reveal the ruby-red seeds inside. Lavellan gasps and calls for her brother to come and look.

Cassandra uses the flat side of her thumb to brush some of the seeds out. They land on her palm, and Cassandra extends her hand out to the Lavellans. “Try some,” she encourages.

Both hesitantly take a seed and eat it. Lavellan leans in to get another seed and lifts it up to Cassandra’s mouth. “You should have some too,” she insists. Cassandra blinks at her, and Lavellan nudges Cassandra’s lips with her thumb. Cassandra’s too surprised to even move, but Lavellan interprets it differently and says, “Are you supposed to eat multiple seeds at a time? Wait, I will get some more.” She picks up two more seeds and expectantly brushes her thumb against Cassandra’s lips. Cassandra hesitantly opens her mouth, and Lavellan slips in the three seeds. When Cassandra bites down, the tart taste spreads across her tongue and Lavellan beams with pleasure. She beckons over to her brother and says, _“Mi._ ” He gives her a small blade sheathed to his belt, and she slices an apple and a pear into neat, little slices. She holds up an apple slice to Cassandra’s lips as well, and Cassandra allows Lavellan to feed her sweet pieces of fruit.

Lavellan moves over so that she stands next to Cassandra and leans into her, skin against skin. “Thank you _, lethallan,”_ she murmurs.

Cassandra can feel M’s gaze boring into her, but for a blissful moment, she allows herself to bend towards Lavellan and gently whisper into her ear, “You’re welcome.” Then, she brings a few more pomegranate seeds to Lavellan’s lips. Lavellan places a soft kiss on Cassandra’s hand before she eats the seeds.

_“Ma serannas, arasha.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
>  **arasha** \- my happiness  
>  **andaran atish'an** \- formal elvhen greeting  
>  **asa'ma'lin** \- sister  
>  **isa'ma'lin** \- brother  
>  **ma nuvenin** \- as you wish  
>  **mi** \- blade  
>  **ma serannas** \- thank you
> 
> some final thoughts:  
> 1\. u know when ur debating over whether a girl is into girls and ur stuck in that spiral of wondering ?? yeah, that's both cassandra and lavellan with each other rn. they're ridiculously in love with each other though.  
> 2\. my chapters _are_ getting longer yikes  
> 3\. cassandra's held onto every single gift that lavellan's ever given her (except for the ones lost at haven) and she cherishes every single one of them.
> 
> thank you to everyone that's commented / gave kudos / bookmarked / subscribed :") it truly motivates me to write more and gives me inspiration for new chapters and literally makes my entire day!! thank you very much <3


	6. heavier than an anchor in the sea

“You love my sister.”

Cassandra almost chokes on her scrambled eggs as she sits alone in the small gazebo. Well, she’s not alone anymore. She looks up to see M at the entrance of the gazebo. He tosses an apple up and down in a deceptively idle manner, and his expression is like a mask. Cassandra can already tell her morning is going to be a touch more sour than expected. First off, Lavellan was too busy to spare time for their usual breakfasts together. Josephine was there at the gazebo before Cassandra to drag Lavellan to yet another meeting. And second, what was it with people accosting her and accusing her of loving Lavellan in the morning? Out of all times? First, Sera, and now, M. It’s even worse with M since he’s  _ Lavellan’s twin brother. _ She cannot afford to make a bad impression on him.

She sets down her fork and inquires, “What brings you here all of a sudden?” She tries to keep her tone as flat and business-like as possible, but she suspects she failed.

M slides into the seat opposite Cassandra — where Lavellan usually sits — and arches an eyebrow as he says, “Your behavior brings me here, Seeker. And I will repeat my statement again. You love my sister.”

“She’s a wonderful friend,” Cassandra says evasively. She pushes around her remaining eggs on her plate as she continues, “Very interesting as well. Her opinions on modern-day lyrium utilization are very, ah, articulate.”

“That is true,” M concedes. “My sister is a very wonderful person, but the fact remains that you love my sister and you are doing nothing about it.”

“Would you like me to?” Cassandra inquires.

“No,” M says before he punctuates it with a loud bite of his apple. After he chews and swallows, he gestures to Cassandra and says, “You are Chantry, through and through. The Chantry has never been kind to one of us whether it be the Dalish, the elves, or mages. You may seem like a good and honorable person, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, but I do not trust a member of the Chantry or a woman who can dispel away magic with a single smite, especially when my sister falls under all three categories.” He smiles — a brutal, mirthless thing — and says, “Even now, when my sister is supposedly uplifted and lauded as a Herald of your god, there are still those within your Chantry who view her as an upstart mage to be made Tranquil. I have every right to be concerned.”

_ Well, shit, he knows my entire full name _ , Cassandra first thinks. How embarrassing.

Her second thought is one of slow horror that spools out in her mind with startling clarity. He has every right to be concerned for his sister. Her mind summons up an unbidden mental image of a Tranquil Lavellan, and she shudders. That image is enough to fuel more than her fair share of nightmares. “You have valid concerns,” Cassandra begins hesitantly. She sets down her fork and squares her shoulders. “But I would  _ never _ let anything happen to Lavellan,” she says. “I swear this on my life. No harm will come to her as a result of my feelings or emotional attachment. Granted, our business is a dangerous one and we are fighting a war we may not win. But I believe in her, and I will protect her for as long as I live.” She sucks in a deep breath and steels herself for her next sentence. “But most importantly,  _ I love her _ , but I will not force this on her if this isn’t what she wants. I am satisfied with our current relationship and would never dream of moving forward without her consent. You have my word on that.”

Cassandra sits there, stunned at her own words that came flooding out of her mouth. She breathes heavily and wonders how she managed to say all of it without stuttering or stammering or sputtering. But it is the whole and complete truth. She loves Lavellan but does not wish to force it if it is unwanted. 

M drums his fingers against the table and considers her words with a thoughtful eye. “Well, well, well,” he hums. “That was an excellent speech, Seeker.”

“Wait, what do you — “ Cassandra falters.

M stands up and takes another bite out of his apple before he declares, “Thank you for confirming my thoughts then. I will have to get 50 gold from Varric and from Blackwall later on.”

“What? Explain. Now,” Cassandra demands as she stands up as well. Her seat grates harshly against the stone gazebo floor, and she trains her sharp gaze on M.

He shrugs, “Ah, some of my sister’s companions including the dwarf and the Warden thought it was impossible for you to fall in love, much less my sister out of all people. I disagreed. I also had an obligation to challenge you because I am her brother, and that is what siblings do.” He turns on his heel, but just before he leaves, he calls out, “I will leave you to your infatuation. Just know that I will personally eviscerate you if you hurt my sister. There. That is my typical sibling talk.”

“So, that was for nothing?” Cassandra shouts at him. She falters and calls out more quietly, “And are you going to tell Lavellan?”

M pauses to glance back at Cassandra. “No, I purposefully goaded you to win a bet,” he deadpans. “It was not for nothing, Seeker. You earned me money. 100 gold, in fact.” He turns halfway before he changes his mind and pads back to the table. “And… I will not tell my sister. That is your decision to make, not mine. I will not judge her choices when it comes to her partners unless the issue poses a danger to her.” He cracks a small smile and says, “And if it comforts you, I did this exact same sibling intimidation talk with every one of my sister’s previous partners.”

Cassandra can’t resist asking, “And how many has she had?”

“Mmm, she has had her fair share of experience, I would say,” he snickers. “But the exact number is for you to decide. Goodbye, Seeker. Once again, thank you for earning me 100 gold.”

Cassandra is left standing in the gazebo, absolutely dumbfounded. She sinks back down in her seat and wonders how she got into this predicament. 

The day just goes downhill from there. Cassandra hears that  _ Hawke _ , out of all people, is here. In Skyhold. The Champion of Kirkwall that she spent so much time searching for is  _ here. _ Fury bubbles in Cassandra, nearly over the edge, but Cassandra pulls herself back from storming into the tavern. Even if she went, Varric would most likely be gone. The dwarf always had a way of disappearing from sticky situations that rivaled Cole’s disappearing trick. Instead, she stomps all the way back to her room. She doesn’t want to see the Champion of Kirkwall on her way there, so she takes the longest way possible. Along the way, she accidentally steps in horse shit and slips on it before crashing into a vacuous Orlesian noblewoman who screeches about the horse shit now stained on her silk shoe. 

When Cassandra arrives in her room, she’s distinctly more pissed than she’s ever been. Well, that’s a lie. She’s sure that she’s been angrier about other things, but for now, her current anger simmers at the bottom of her heart, ready to burst at any second. She fumes in privacy and takes comfort in the fact that Lavellan, Josephine, and Leliana will be proud of “handling her anger management issues.” Not that she has them. Cassandra  _ thinks  _ she doesn’t have them. 

She slumps on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering  _ why _ Varric would  _ lie _ to her. She is furious about the lie and the absolute spectacle she must have made of herself during that entire interrogation. 

Suddenly, there’s a rap on the door. It’s an arrhythmic series of taps that lets Cassandra know it’s Lavellan. “Come in,” she calls out reluctantly. She doesn’t want to let Lavellan see her like this, but she also doesn’t want to turn her away, especially if there’s Inquisition business that requires her attention. Work first and foremost. Although, Cassandra will admit that Lavellan, out of all people, is welcome to come no matter what time or place it may be. 

Lavellan enters, balancing a tray of pastries and a teapot in her hands. On her belt are numerous pouches, tied on with twine, string, and whatever else Lavellan must have gotten her hands on.  _ “Aneth ara,  _ Cassandra. It is tea time,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

“Wh—“ Cassandra sputters before Lavellan sets the tray down on her small desk. Lavellan pauses before she waves her hand to make the tray levitate — with a  dangerous shake — and sweeps her papers aside in a relatively neat pile. Then, the tray clatters back down on the desk. Cassandra expects the teapot to shatter, but it doesn’t. 

Lavellan doesn’t say anything more and instead, sings a soft Dalish song under her breath. She gets into it: tapping her foot to the rhythm, snapping her fingers, swaying her hips side to side. She busies herself with the teapot as she casts a concentrated ice spell in the pot. She melts it down into water with a flame flickering from the tip of her finger. She swirls her finger over the water until it boils and bubbles. Lavellan glances over at Cassandra and asks, “Do you have a tea preference?”

“No?” Cassandra says with a shake of her head.

Lavellan clicks her tongue and says, “Then, we shall use the last of my clan’s special blend.” From a rough-woven pouch tied on with a leather thong, she extracts several dried herbs and leaves to scatter into the hot water. Lavellan beckons Cassandra over to show her the way some of the dried flowers expand into blooms within the water. “Every clan has a special blend,” she explains. “Some are more well-known than others, and ours was one of the most popular during Arlathvhens. It is a very sweet kind of tea rather than bitter.” Lavellan wrinkles her nose and says with derision, “The clans from the Anderfels have the bitterest teas. Antivan and Rivaini clans have more spicy teas, but I prefer the sweet kinds.” 

She exhales, “And now, we talk. What is on your mind,  _ lethallan? _ ”

“Hawke,” Cassandra growls. She straightens up as the spark of fury deep in her heart rekindles. “He knew where Hawke was  _ all along.” _

Lavellan nods along as she pours out the tea. From another pouch, she takes out a squashed pastry and hands it to Cassandra. When Cassandra doesn’t take a bite, she clicks her tongue and taps her foot with one eyebrow arched high. Cassandra bites down the pastry before passing back to Lavellan. Lavellan tastes it before handing it back to Cassandra. “It is yours, and so is the tea. Drink and eat more,” she encourages. “Sweet things are good for the soul and for difficult times.” She cups her own hot mug as she settles down to sit beside Cassandra. 

Cassandra shuts her eyes and repeats, “He  _ knew  _ where Hawke was all along.” The anger laces through her voice, and she bitterly says, “What a conniving little shit!” She falters as the swear word slips out of her mouth, and Lavellan hurries to reassure her. 

“It is alright to swear,” Lavellan says as she pats Cassandra’s shoulder. “I do not mind. If you would like to use a different word, use  _ etunash. _ It is Elvhen for shit.”

_ “Etunash?” _

The word feels sour as she tries to pronounce it, and the sound falls out flat. Lavellan wrinkles her nose and says, “Ah, never mind, continue using shit. Go on.”

Cassandra’s shoulders sink as she murmurs, “We  _ needed _ someone to lead the Inquisition. First, Leliana and I looked for the Hero of Ferelden, Warden Surana. But she was gone. Vanished. No trace left behind except for a final goodbye note she left Leliana about some long journey. We couldn’t trace her at all.”

Lavellan mulls it over before she asks, “She was an elf, yes?”

“Yes,” Cassandra answers. Her thoughts turn towards Warden Surana. Despite her being an elf, Cassandra knows that some people are already grinding down the tips of her pointed ears in statues around the country. It is a fact that never ceases to drive Leliana into a heated anger. Cassandra gazes at Lavellan — the way her vallaslin curl across her cheeks in entwined branches, the brightness of her eyes, the points of her ears — and wonders if people will ever do that to  _ her. _ The Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. If people will ever make statues of her Lavellan and then erase her identity one by one over the years until she is nothing more than a name. After all, that happened to Shartan. It is slowly happening to Surana. Cassandra suspects that the same would happen to Hawke if Hawke were an elf.

Lavellan waits as Cassandra collects her thoughts together. She takes a sip of her tea, and the sweetness spreads across her tongue. Cassandra shuts her eyes to savor the taste, but even that touch of sweetness isn’t enough to assuage her fury. “And then we looked for Hawke,” she continues. “But then, she vanished too. We all thought it was connected, but  _ no _ , it was just Varric. He kept her from us. Hawke could have been there at the Conclave!” Casssandra’s voice cracks as she says, “If anyone could have saved Most Holy, then it would have been— “ She angrily cuts her sentence off right there to snarl, “Varric is a liar. A snake. Even when we needed her most, Varric kept her secret.”

Lavellan slips her hand closer to Cassandra’s hand and laces their fingers together. With the flat of her thumb, she rubs circles on Cassandra’s palm. “I think…” she trails off.

Cassandra cuts in to say, “No, go ahead. Feel free to speak. I have already said most of what I have been thinking.” That’s not the complete truth though. There aren’t enough eloquent words to describe her mental image of punting Varric through a window like some sort of shotput or javelin. 

Lavellan continues to rub circles on Cassandra’s hand as she says, “I think that Varric made a choice based on what he believed to be the best.”

“What?” Cassandra sputters. “When people were dying? Hawke could have been there, averted the disaster, prevented it from happening! The breach might not have even happened if the Champion of Kirkwall was there!” She gestures over to Lavellan’s Anchored hand as she says, “You wouldn’t have the Anchor! You were unconscious and in pain for  _ days _ . Days that could have been prevented.” 

The Anchor flares at the end of Cassandra’s sentence. Lavellan winces in response, but she soldiers on. “Hawke is just a person. The Champion is nothing more than a title for a human woman,” Lavellan says, still in her soft, hushed tone. “I do not remember what happened at the Conclave, but I do not think it was anything preventable by mortal means.”

Lavellan’s words dredge up Cassandra’s previous thoughts, and then, everything clicks together. She remembers Varric hunching over the fire, and the familiar guilt oozes over her mind. She should know this by now. Out of all people, she should know this by now.

Lavellan shrugs. “I almost ran during the first days at Haven because I was scared,” she explains. She gestures with her Anchored hand, and it starts sputtering green light that Lavellan stoically ignores. “I feared for my life. I… Do not have good experiences with the Chantry, Cassandra, and…” The Anchor sparks up and crackles in the middle of her pause, and she grits her teeth. “I thought they would brand me with Tranquility or have the templars do whatever they wanted to me,” she confesses. A mirthless laugh tears itself from her lips, and she says, “We are both mages, this Hawke and I. I have seen and heard of what templars can do to mages. I think I can see why Varric did what he did. This does not mean your feelings are invalid, and I think your concerns are important as well. But the fact remains that we cannot change the past, and no matter how great of a title a person may have, they are nothing more than people in the end.”

“You’re right,” Cassandra says. The anger burning at the back of her throat makes it difficult to choke the words out, but she says, “I must not think of what could or should have been. There’s just so much at stake. Maybe if I just made Varric understand…” She casts her gaze down and miserably says, “Oh, I am such a fool.”

“I wonder what would have happened at the Conclave sometimes, but look at the bright side,  _ lethallan _ ,” Lavellan says. She reaches out her marked hand to tip Cassandra’s face up. Her touch is almost uncomfortably warm, and green light shines between them both. “Thanks to this,” Lavellan says with an honest and open expression. “I have met so many new people and seen so many new things. We are fighting a war, yes, but I met you and will be by your side. I would not change the past.”

Cassandra leans into Lavellan’s touch, and she murmurs, “You know what?” Lavellan hums in response, and Cassandra takes it as a cue to start talking. “You are a great leader,” she begins. “And nothing will ever change the fact that you being Inquisitor was the best thing that ever could have happened to this organization.”

She sucks in a deep breath before she admits, “But I was always scared that Most Holy or Leliana or anyone else would try and make  _ me _ the Inquisitor. I am a Seeker, yes, and I outrank all the templars here, and I’m the Right Hand of the Divine.” Cassandra shakes her head ruefully and says, “By Chantry hierarchy, I should be the Inquisitor. But I was terrified. Terrified of leading something I didn’t know, something that I wasn’t sure of. You told me that you were hesitant to lead the Inquisition, but I? I was a coward and passed the burden onto you. I was already sick and tired from being the Hero of Orlais and the Right Hand. I had enough of titles. Even though those were titles I received years and years ago, they still cling to me. I should have known that those titles are heavier than an anchor in the sea. I should have  _ known.” _

Lavellan doesn’t move, and her thumb ceases to circle on Cassandra’s palm. “I did not know this,” she breathes out.

Cassandra says despondently, “And I am sorry for it.”

It’s ironic to think about how she gave up her noble titles for the life of a Seeker. Now, she thinks she has more formal titles than she’s ever had during her time at her uncle’s house. She shuts her eyes, refusing to see Lavellan’s expression. She doesn’t want to see the betrayal in her love’s eyes.

_ “Tel’abelas, arasha,” _ Lavellan chides. She brushes her thumb across Cassandra’s cheeks and gives her hand a squeeze with her other hand. “I admit I was scared to be the Inquisitor, but I think I have gotten used to it with your support. I do not blame you. Please do not worry any more about this.”

Cassandra opens her eyes to see a melancholic smile crossing Lavellan’s face. Cassandra shakes her head and repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Lavellan huffs out a breathy laugh as she says, “If you are sorry, then you may make it up to me by talking with Varric about Hawke.”

Cassandra rears back, shocked by what Lavellan said. “What?” she says aghast. “No, I can’t!”

“What do you mean you cannot?” Lavellan counters. “You can. I believe in you, Cassandra, and there are some things that must be talked out before they can be resolved. This is one of those things. You said yourself that you wanted to make Varric understand. Now is your chance to clear it up. Talk to him like you talked with me.”

Cassandra takes another sip of her tea to buy herself some time. Lavellan leans over to pluck the pastry out of Cassandra’s hand and takes a bite. Cassandra blinks and tries to ignore the fact that sharing food could be classified as a secondhand kiss. But her thoughts wander back over to the entire Hawke issue. Her pride makes her want to ignore him or punch him with very little deviance or middle-ground between those two ideas. However, Lavellan still sits there, expectantly waiting. Finally, she gives in and says, “Alright. And Lavellan?”

“Yes?”

Cassandra sets down her cup of tea on her bedside table, and she leans over to set the pastry down on the tray. Lavellan clicks her tongue and nudges her to show her another pouch tied onto her belt that’s full of squashed pastries. Cassandra huffs out a small laugh and reaches out to hold Lavellan’s marked hand. The Anchor quiets down, but Lavellan’s hands are still warm. “I want you to know that I have no regrets. I believe the Maker sent you, and I believe you are the right leader for the Inquisition. And I am…” Cassandra says everything with as much sincerity as she can, but she trails off. In her head, the unfinished thought finishes as  _ “I am in love with you.” _ She tamps down the thought with as much strength as she can muster and replaces it with, “I am grateful for all the time we have spent together.”

It isn’t wrong. But it is only a shadow of the real sentiments simmering beneath her skin.

“So am I,” Lavellan says gently, tenderly. But her eyes shutter and look down. A curtain of her hair falls to hide her face as she repeats, “So am I.”

Cassandra lets go of one hand to tuck some hair behind Lavellan’s ear. That gives her a glimpse of the soft expression suffusing Lavellan’s face, and she mimics Lavellan’s earlier gesture as she tilts Lavellan’s face up towards her. They stay like that for what seems to be a blissful eternity, gazing into each other’s eyes.

Lavellan leans against Cassandra’s shoulder and after some time, muses, “You know, I think the  _ hahrens _ in my clan would call you  _ da’mis.” _

Cassandra trawls through her memories of Solas’s lessons before she hesitantly says, “Doesn’t that mean blade?”

“You remember!” Lavellan crows. She taps her finger against Cassandra’s thighs and says, “I do not know how you managed to learn all of this while I was gone. But almost.  _ Mi _ is blade,  _ da’mis _ is little blade or dagger, but we use it as an endearment.” She stops tapping and begins tracing symbols on Cassandra’s thigh. “It is used for someone who is stubborn but effective,” she says before she glances up at Cassandra. “Someone who seeks out what they want regardless of consequence.”

“That doesn’t sound very good.”

“But am I wrong?”

“No.”

A sigh gusts out of Cassandra’s mouth, and she wryly thinks that even in Elvhen, there is a word to describe her pigheadedness. 

Lavellan shakes her head and says, “But it is a good thing in your case. You always seek out what you believe to be right. Sometimes, people may misunderstand that because they do not see your perspective as clearly as you do, and the same goes for the other way around.”

“I see,” Cassandra says haltingly.

Lavellan nods with satisfaction and says, “So,  _ da’mis.” _

Cassandra runs her hand through Lavellan’s hair and cards her fingers through the long locks. Impulsively, she leans down to kiss Lavellan’s head and whispers, “You know, you’re quite good at this counseling thing.” She’s so close to Lavellan now, and her body feels so warm against Cassandra. Lavellan curls up closer to Cassandra, tea and pastries forgotten, and Cassandra allows herself to lean her head against Lavellan’s shoulder. Lavellan rearranges herself on Cassandra’s lap to fit more comfortably, and she holds Cassandra close, arms looping around her back and voice humming. Belatedly, Cassandra realizes that Lavellan smells like embrium. Ambrette and iris root, the warm, peppery scent of embrium with an underlying sweetness. Cassandra shivers, scared to see how deep her feelings run for Lavellan. Lavellan misunderstands it as cold, and warmth radiates from Lavellan’s skin to hers. Her Seeker senses feel the familiar spark of Lavellan’s magic as it surrounds them both.

“Thank you,” Cassandra says. Her voice is muffled as she presses herself closer to Lavellan. The warmth of her embrace is just too warm for her to even resist. 

“I was the  _ best _ at this in my clan,” Lavellan confides. “They ran everyone through some basic Keeper training to see who would be the best First, and it was me.” She pulls back slightly enough for Cassandra to see how her beaming expression. “My brother is terrible at this,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “Well, not  _ bad _ , but not as good compared to me.”

Cassandra snorts out loud at that. “He seems quiet and stoic,” she says. “I can see why he wasn’t as good as you at counseling.”

“Oh?” Lavellan says with a raise of her brows. “I can never get him to shut up.”

The complete look of disbelief makes Lavellan laugh out loud. “No, I am serious! Ma — M constantly talks to me, especially when I am busy!” she says with another bubble of laughter. “Not that I mind, but it is incredibly funny to watch him going around Skyhold like a quiet shadow. I can understand though. I was like that at Haven.”

“No, you weren’t,” Cassandra disagrees. Lavellan was far more lively at Haven in comparison to M at Skyhold.

“No, I was simply very good at covering up my loneliness,” Lavellan corrects. “”I am alright now, but my brother is still adjusting. Once he feels more comfortable, I am sure he will find a place for himself and start talking and bantering  _ all the time.” _ She narrows her eyes and grumbles, “Although, Dorian has been telling him things that go to his head. Things like how pretty he looks or how his aim is very good and all those flirting sorts of things. It is making him  _ insufferable _ . I did not think he and Dorian would ever get along because, you know, elves and Tevinters do not get along, but they are becoming  _ friends _ . I think. Which is good because M is making friends, but also, I wish he made friends with you or Solas or Bull first instead of  _ Dorian _ who makes his ego bigger.” She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture and sighs dramatically, “It is tiring to be the uglier twin.”

Cassandra’s taken aback by the statement. Lavellan, ugly? The two words together in the same sentence strike such a dissonance that she sputters, “What?! Lavellan, you are  _ beautiful. _ If Dorian tells your brother that he is beautiful or that he has good aim, then  _ I _ will tell you that you are lovelier than the stars and that you are worth more than the moons in the sky.” 

Cassandra has to admit that she pulls most of those phrases from  _ Swords and Shields. _ She can’t think of poetic phrases for the life of her, but Lavellan seems stunned. “Oh,” she says. A blush creeps across her face, and she repeats, “Oh.”

Cassandra can’t help but blush as well. She also thanks her long-term memory of  _ Swords and Shields _ passages. Specifically, page 57 of Chapter 6.

“Thank you,  _ arasha,” _ Lavellan sighs out. “I think you are beautiful as well. Always so kind, so compassionate.” Now, she leans in to bury her face between Cassandra's neck and shoulder. “Are you feeling better now?” she asks.

Cassandra leans her cheek against Lavellan’s head as she answers, “Yes, very much so.”

“Okay, then to the tavern we go,” Lavellan says. She gives Cassandra one last squeeze before wiggling out of their embrace. She unloops the pastry pouch from her belt and places it on Cassandra’s bedside table. “For later,” she says. She places the pouch of tea next to the pastries before glancing back at Cassandra.  “You know,” she grumbles. “They still have not taken down the terrible, terrible sign with me painted on it. I do not like being in Andraste’s arms if it means I am going to look like a ghost or a pile of unwashed blankets.”

That manages to get a laugh out of Cassandra, and while she still has a drop of courage left, she reaches over to grab Lavellan’s hand. “Let’s go together,” she says, trying to make up an excuse to hold hands. Lavellan repositions her grip so that their fingers are more tightly interlaced and Cassandra flushes. 

They go to the tavern like that, and Cassandra cannot hide the blush that runs across her cheeks. When they pass under the sign, Lavellan sticks her tongue out at the “Herald’s Rest” sign before she pushes the door open. The atmosphere of the jolly, rolicking tavern does nothing to soothe Cassandra’s frazzled nerves, and somehow, it reignites the nervous, angry feeling clotting in her throat. Lavellan leads her up the stairs, soothing her with soft humming. It’s the same lullabye that she always sings without fail, and the familiar song eases Cassandra’s nerves just a little bit.

Then, she sees Varric.

He’s perched on a chair, idly swinging his heels against the legs of his chair, but Cassandra sees the way his fingers nervously drum the surface of the table. Lavellan lets go of her hand and hops to sit on a table. Everyone else in the vicinity slowly begins to shuffle downstairs, and when Lavellan clears her throat, they start hurrying. The sound of their shuffling steps masks the sound of Cassandra’s deep voice.

“Seeker,” Varric finally says.

“Varric,” she answers, her tone harder and sharper than she expects it to be.

Varric turns to face her fully as he says, “Well, I have to say that I’m surprised. You didn’t break down the tavern door looking for me.”

“I almost did,” Cassandra with a stony gaze. She doesn’t move from her spot, even when Varric gestures over to an empty seat.

He sighs, “Glad you didn’t. Iron Bull already broke that door once.”

“I know,” Cassandra says. The words feel stilted on her tongue, but she soldiers on, “I was there.”

Silence falls between the two of them, and Cassandra doesn’t know what she’s doing with herself anymore. This facade of banter doesn’t do anything to defuse the situation, and it only prolongs the awkwardness. She clears her own throat, and that makes Varric jump. He settles back down in his seat and groans, “You’re here to talk about Hawke. Aren’t you?”

“What else would I be here for?” Cassandra throws back.

He raises his hands up, frustrated and angry too. He glares at Cassandra and says, “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Seeker.”

“Oh, really now?” she replies archly. “Funny, considering how much you have to say about everything,  _ Varric.” _ Anger, familiar and hot, rises up in her throat like bile. No longer cold, no longer knotted, but fully realizes and burning in her chest. 

Varric narrows his eyes when he hears the iron in her voice, and his glare intensifies. “Funny how you’re not pulling out the knives and chains for this round of questioning,  _ Seeker,” _ he growls back. 

Cassandra strides forward; two is enough to put her face to face with the dwarf. She glowers down on him as she snaps, “I think it’s time to stop playing the wounded party with me, Varric.”

“Ignoring the times you  _ actually _ wounded me?” Varric retorts.

That makes Cassandra’s blood run hot. She has  _ never _ injured anyone during an interrogation. Not Varric, not Lavellan, not any single person under her charge. “I did no such thing,” she barks. “I questioned you, and then, brought you to Haven so you could tell your story to the Divine!”

“What then?” Varric challenges. His eyes glint with a stubbornness Cassandra knows too well now. “Thanks, Varric! We believe you! See you around!” he mocks.

“And ignoring the fact you did lie to me,” Cassandra continues, voice shaking with the effort to stay calm. “Do not pretend to be an innocent bystander. I could have done far worse, with full justification, and Kirkwall is recovering.”

Varric rolls his eyes and slams his hands down on the table. “Yes, thank you for not torturing me. I'm so much happier now,” he scoffs. “What you're talking about are the buildings, and even then that will take years. People don't recover so easily.”

Cassandra moves forward, hands twitching to grab Varric by the lapels, but Lavellan coughs behind them. Both Cassandra and Varric freeze, and their eyes slide over to Lavellan still sitting on the table. She catches their gaze and raises her eyebrows. With a shrug, she whistles the same Dalish tune. 

Varric is the first to move as he pushes his chair back and stands up. “Sorry, birdie,” he says apologetically. He runs his inky hands through his hair, leaving a streak of black on his forehead. “Great, you interrogated me and intimidated me and all of that. Fantastic. Then, why did you drag me to Haven, Seeker?” he asks. His shoulders slump as he tosses his hands up with frustration. “I mean, what could I have told the Divine that you couldn't say yourself?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes and says, “I thought she needed to see the chest hair for herself.”

“Er... Say again?” Varric says with a wrinkle of his nose. Her comment gets a quiet chuckle out of Lavellan, and Cassandra allows herself a small smile.

“I thought she needed to hear it from the horse's mouth, as it were. I also knew she would ask you to help us,” she clarifies.

“Help the Inquisition? Me?” Varric says. Disbelief suffuses his face.

Cassandra has to agree. “A crazy thought, I know, yet here you are,” she concedes.

“Here I am,” he repeats, a wistful tone threading through his words. Varric shakes his head and turns his back to Cassandra. He braces his hands against the table and murmurs, “You know, I think if Hawke was there at the Conclave, she would’ve died too.” In a softer, bitter whisper, he says, “You people have done enough to her.”

“I know.”

Varric turns on his heel abruptly, shock lining itself across his face clear as day. Cassandra gives him a wry look and says, “I know what titles do to people, what burdens people bear.” She casts a quick glance towards Lavellan who gives her an encouraging nod. “And I was blinding to that despite my knowledge of it,” she admits. “Hero of Orlais, Champion of Kirkwall, Hero of Ferelden. In the end, none of those reveal enough about the person underneath and… And…”

Varric holds up a hand to stop her and says, “That’s enough, Seeker.” He lets out a heavy, sinking sigh and says, “But Hawke’s here now, and judging from what she’s said and done so far, she’s here to help. Don’t ruin her, Seeker. Keep her safe. That’s the least you can do for her.” With that, he pushes past Cassandra and trods down the stairs. His steps are loud against the creaking wood. 

Lavellan hops down from her perch and pads over to Cassandra. “You seem shaken,” she comments.

“Because I am,” Cassandra says. She leans into Lavellan’s touch when the elf runs her hands down Cassandra’s arms. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” she offers.

Cassandra shakes her head. “It’s everything we’ve already discussed.”

“Alright,” Lavellan says. She cups Cassandra’s cheek and soothes, “Then I will always be here. Do you need some time to yourself?”

“No,” Cassandra initially says. Regret rises up on her tongue, and she immediately says, “Yes. No. Yes. No. No. Please stay with me, Lavellan. Stay with me.”

Lavellan stays silent, and worry prickles the back of Cassandra’s neck. She hurries to say, “Of course, if you’re busy or don’t have the time, you don’t have to.”

Lavellan reaches to clasp Cassandra’s hand and says firmly, “I always have time for you,  _ arasha _ , but let us go somewhere softer, quieter, than this. I will stay with you. Always.”

Lavellan tugs Cassandra closer to her, close enough to the point where their faces almost touch. Lavellan pauses there, parts her lips, and Cassandra holds her breath. Then, Lavellan turns and tugs Cassandra down the stairs and out the tavern. She leads them both to the quartermaster and procures a couple of blankets and an empty canteen. Cassandra stands there, utterly confused, but Lavellan piles the blankets in Cassandra’s arms. Cassandra’s left to follow after Lavellan as she goes to the library. 

Solas is in his rotunda with a palette of paint in his hands, beginning another fresco of his. He pauses in the middle of his work to raise an eyebrow at Cassandra and Lavellan. Lavellan only calls out a brief  _ “aneth ara!” _ before she hurries up the stairs. Cassandra lingers long enough to see Solas mouth out, “Follow your heart for once, Seeker.” She shoots him a dirty look before she runs up the stairs after Lavellan.

Lavellan stands next to a bookshelf, whispering something quick and furious into Dorian’s ear. The Tevinter peeks over Lavellan’s shoulder and prods her. Lavellan glances behind and gives Cassandra a beaming smile before she tugs Dorian closer by his shirt collar. She whispers one final thing into his ear, and he gives her a small salute when she lets him go. Lavellan darts over to Cassandra and guides her to a cozy, comfy nook. 

For some reason, most of the people in the library seem to filter out of the tower. Dorian stops by to leave a stack of books by the nook. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks. “And I do hope you know that I’m doing you a great favor.”

Lavellan signs a symbol with her deft fingers and laughs, “I always owe you favors.”

“Favors that I never seem to be able to cash in on,” he grumbles. Lavellan raises a brow at him and he snorts, “Just joking, my dear Lavellan. I’ll be on my way now. Let me know how it went after everything.”

“Will do,” she affirms. Cassandra just stands there, watching the exchange with bemused eyes. 

Lavellan grabs the blankets from her arms and spreads them over the nook. “Come on,” she says. She crooks her finger to beckon Cassandra closer and says, “I think you will like this.” Cassandra hesitates before she settles down in the nook. Lavellan tucks a blanket around her before she grabs the canteen and fills it with hot water with her same combination of ice and fire spells. She opens a different pouch tied to her belt this time and drops a few pinches of tea inside. “Different Dalish tea,” she explains. “From a clan I met while crossing through Orlais. Not as well as my clan’s tea. More floral, but still very good.” She places the canteen next to Cassandra and grabs the first book off Dorian’s stack. 

To Cassandra’s surprise, it’s the first chapter of  _ Swords and Shields. _ Cassandra stares incredulously at Lavellan, but Lavellan only flicks the book open. She curls up underneath Cassandra’s blanket and begins to read out loud. They’re words that Cassandra never dreamed to ever hear from Lavellan’s own mouth, and she shapes out the erotic words with ease. Cassandra’s cheeks are scarlet, but Lavellan’s voice is too soothing for her to resist. However, Cassandra does keep glancing up to check if anyone’s there. Suspiciously, no one is around. When she looks back at Lavellan, the Inquisitor only winks before continuing.

“You’re abnormally good at this,” Cassandra finally comments after they finish the first chapter.

Lavellan rubs the back of her neck and admits, “I have been practicing reading Varric’s books out loud wherever I go. I have a copy of  _ Hard in Hightown _ and another copy of  _ Swords and Shields  _ in my travel bag.” She taps the book and continues, “It is easier to practice by the fireside or when we are resting. The others help me sometimes. The copy of the  _ Tale of the Champion _ is in my rooms in a special drawer. I do not want to get that one dirty.”

“Why?”

“Because you gave it to me.”

“Oh.”

Cassandra ducks her head, unable to meet Lavellan’s gaze. All this for her. She thanks the Maker and blessed Andraste for giving her the grace to meet such a brilliant soul. She does not deserve Lavellan as a friend, as a companion, and the familiar twinge of love resounds in her heart once more.

All good things must come to an end, and likewise, Leliana eventually comes to pick Lavellan up for a War Council meeting. Leliana casts a sympathetic look at Cassandra and slips another volume of  _ Swords and Shields _ in Cassandra’s lap before she leaves.

Once Cassandra’s left at the last cliffhanger, she stares out at the window with a blank gaze. She’s read this part of  _ Swords and Shields _ enough times to know how it pans out. The Guard-Captain is left on the precipice of a great decision that Cassandra still doesn’t know the outcome too. Varric refuses to tell her anything about the ending, insisting that he has a reputation to keep up. 

Her thoughts wander over to Hawke. Part of her wants to believe that Hawke would have saved the Divine. Cassandra presses her lips into a thin line as she falls deep into thought, but her gaze latches on a passing figure through the window. Short, black hair and armor that has silverite jutting in sharp angles from the cuirass and pauldrons. 

It’s an iconic silhouette that matches only the Champion of Kirkwall. 

Cassandra leaps out of her seat and sprints down the stairs, ignoring Solas and Dorian as they call after her. She darts through the milling number of people outside the tower and searches for Hawke. She spots a silver pauldron rounding around the corner, and with gritted teeth, Cassandra follows Hawke. In her haste, she almost slams into Hawke once she gets within closer range, but Cassandra skids to a stop. 

Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall. The woman she spent so many days and weeks and months searching for. 

Somehow, Hawke seems  _ different _ than Cassandra imagined. She has bright blue eyes and shaggy black hair as Cassandra expects. But, she doesn’t have her signature red streaked along the bridge of her nose nor is she the classic beauty Varric described in his book. Marian Hawke is beautiful, but her nose is a touch too tall and her jaw is on the square side to truly classify under the qualifications of what nobility deems to be beauty. Rather than a delicate flower of a noblewoman, Hawke has a strength that shines out from her features that gives her character. It reminds Cassandra of herself actually. 

Despite Hawke’s height, she also seems colt-ish, out of place, and graceless in the way she moves and paces. When Cassandra reaches out her Seeker senses, all she feels is an untamed thicket of mana — typical of any apostate without rigorous and formal Circle training — but there’s a structure to the mess of her magic, a golden, gleaming thread that unites all the disjointed parts together into a cohesive, functional whole. 

The woman in question turns only has a bemused look in her eye and says frankly, “So, are you the person Varric warned me to look out for?”

Cassandra has to stifle a groan and chooses to say instead, “What did he say?”

Hawke gives a nonchalant shrug and answers, “Oh, some unflattering things, but he did say that this person had excellent biceps.”

“Ah. That’s me then,” Cassandra sighs. Hawke peers at her almost expectantly, and with a grumble, Cassandra lifts her arm to flex for Hawke.

“He was right,” Hawke says with a raise of her brow. “You’re Cassandra Pentaghast then. The Seeker. I’m Hawke.”

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” Cassandra murmurs under her breath. It’s not soft enough to avoid Hawke’s ears though, and her ice-blue eyes flick up from Cassandra’s biceps to stare directly at her.

“Nah, I don’t bother much with that title anymore,” she says lightly. She raps her armor and says, “I kept the Champion’s armor though. Handy for keeping pointy things out of your body’s I will say these pointy square things on my armor can be a hassle sometimes though. The only uses I ever found for them were for body-slamming into my enemies — which doesn’t work out too well — and for hiding mabari treats.”

“Why not?” Cassandra asks. “The title was well-earned and well-deserved.” 

“Hard to call yourself a Champion of a city that crumbled to pieces under your watch,” Hawke says with a bitter smile. “The title just doesn’t fit as well as it used to after that. Not that it ever fit, but I digress.”

Varric’s and Lavellan’s words begin to circle around and around in Cassandra’s memory. Once again, she fell into the pit of assumption. Cassandra mentally berates herself for making the same mistake not once, not twice, but thrice in the same day. “I’m sorry,” she says, misery lacing her tone.

Hawke knits her eyebrows together and says, “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.” She reaches over to give Cassandra a solid pat on the back before she clears her throat and begins brightly, “Anyhow, depressing subjects aside! Nice to meet you. Heard you were looking for me?”

“Yes,” Cassandra grimaces. “I was.”

“Well, congratulations! You’ve found the one and only,” Hawke says with a harder slap on Cassandra’s back. She bites her lips before adding, “Actually, I do have a brother among the Wardens, so you might have found that Hawke instead of me. I’m the prettier sibling though. Come on, let’s chat for a bit.” She beckons Cassandra over with the crook of her finger and starts walking without waiting for a response.

Cassandra lengthens the stride of her steps until she matches step for step with the Champion. They make their way down Skyhold, and Hawke watches the keep with an false interest glazing over her eyes. It doesn’t take long before she finally cracks and says, “Varric said that you wanted me to lead the Inquisition.”

Cassandra ducks underneath some scaffolding for some renovations and side-steps a puddle of paint before she replies, “I did.”

Hawke snorts out a laugh, “Your current Inquisitor dropped an entire mountain — or at least, half of one — on that Corypheus bastard. I doubt I could one-up that.”

Cassandra exhales sharply after that sentence. The memory of the avalanche doesn’t sit well with her because it only reminds her of the ice-cold terror that gripped her heart. Maybe she was already in love with Lavellan then, but during that moment, her grief was all-consuming. Cassandra musters up a weak smile and says, “You kept an entire city together and saved it from a horde of rampaging Qunari though.”

Hawke arches an eyebrow and says, “You read Varric’s book, huh?”

“Yes?” Cassandra answers with some confusion.

Hawke shakes her head ruefully as she mutters, “He always makes me sound more heroic than I actually was. I just slapped a hand to my stomach, trying to keep my guts inside, and that was the end of it.” She gestures over to the people on the renovation scaffolding. Some are masons, patching together the holes in Skyhold with large stones and mortar while others are replacing the rotten wood of the buildings. Hawke’s lips twist as she says, “All the people responsible for rebuilding in the wreckage, making something new out of it.  _ Those _ are the real heroes of Ferelden. I was simply at the right place at the right time.” She glances over at Cassandra and shrugs, “Or wrong place because, you know, I  _ did _ get stabbed straight through the abdomen. Terrible experience, wouldn’t recommend at all. Bed rest was a  _ beast _ to get through.”

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit,” Cassandra points out. No matter how much Hawke tries to deny it, she was awarded the mantle of the Champion for a reason. The first in Kirkwall’s history and one of the few in Free Marcher history.

Hawke gives her a hollow laugh before saying, “I don’t need to when everyone else does it for me. Like I said, the title means pretty much nothing. The city’s barely standing anyways, so if things go really south, then I won’t be a Champion of any city anymore.

“Somehow, Varric painted you as more optimistic,” Cassandra mutters.

Hawke’s ears are keen though, and she laughs more brightly now. “Hm. Optimism. Wish I had a bit more of that right now. But Maker, you’re right, I sound like my dour uncle or something like that. Good grief, that’s  _ terrible _ . I can’t believe I’m sinking to  _ Gamlen’s _ level,” she chortles. “Anyhow, personal matters aside, what about you, Seeker? Everything good here?” She sheepishly smiles and twiddles her thumbs together as she says, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation in the tavern. Herald’s Rest, I think it’s called?”

“What?”

“Hey,” Hawke says defensively. “If there’s a tavern in the keep, that’s the first place I’m going to. Warm, good music, food, alcohol that’s not scraped off the bottom of a dirty barrel. Also, lots of interesting conversations. And you two  _ were _ yelling at each other. You could hear it quite clearly if you stood near the stairs. The bard did try to play her music louder to drown out your voices, so there’s that fact for comfort.”

Cassandra lets out a loud groan, but Hawke gives her yet  _ another _ pat on the back. At this point, Cassandra suspects that she will have a bruise in the shape of Hawke’s hand on her shoulder and back with all of these comforting pats. Normally, she would welcome friendly gestures like that, but Hawke is far more strong than anyone else that’s given her a pat. Hawke’s lips quirk up and she says, “Varric’s all bark and no bite. Actually, he’s got some bite when you hurt the things he loves, but that’s nearly everyone in the entire world. Aaaaand the Inquisitor herself? Good for you, Seeker.”

“Why must  _ everyone _ pry into my private affairs?” Cassandra grumbles. She’ll have to add Hawke to the list of people that bother her about it. Currently, that list includes the entirety of Lavellan’s inner circle, her advisors, the Bull’s Chargers, and Scout Lace Harding. Now, it has the Champion of Kirkwall on it. Ugh.

Hawke shrugs and nonchalantly says, “We talked a little bit about myself, and now, it’s your turn. Also, it’s not really prying and more like personal interests?” She taps her chin with her index finger and offers up, “Well-intentioned gossiping?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes and asks, “Is there ever such a thing?”

“Not among nobles, no,” Hawke says with too much cheer. “But do I really count as one?”

“You literally own an estate in Hightown and are noble-born,” Cassandra deadpans.

Hawke waves her hand dismissively at Cassandra and says, “Ah, but I’ve still got Fereldan dog-lord in my blood. Therefore, it doesn’t really count. And I’m an apostate which balances out all the properness in my bloodline. At least, that’s what all the noble ladies in Kirkwall say. But you’re trying to change the subject.”

In the grand scheme of their conversation, Cassandra doesn’t think they’ve talked about Hawke enough to merit this  _ digging  _ into her personal life. Then again, Hawke  _ does _ have an entire novel dedicated to her and her private life. Whether she likes it or not, the world knows her name, her companions, and even her elven lover. Varric is nothing if not dedicated to the details, and even though he inserts a few lies here and there, all of his lies have some grain of truth to them. 

She gives Hawke a once-over, and in response, Hawke waggles her eyebrows at her. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone,” Hawke says. “Don’t spend too much time pining though. I’ve had my own fair share of pining and brooding about elves and their propensity to be infuriatingly lovely and endearing.”   


Cassandra sinks into silence, wondering if she should say anything more. But elves. Lavellan is an elf, and Hawke knows her fair share of elves. If Varric’s account is true enough, then Hawke knows a Dalish elf as well. She sucks in a deep breath before blurting, “Is the touching just a Dalish thing?”

“Hmm?”

“Gestures. Touch. That sort of thing.”

“Well, I don’t know why you’re asking me that,” Hawke says with a grimace. “Do I look Dalish to you? I’m afraid I don’t have a good facial structure for the vallaslin. Also, the lack of pointed ears knocks me off the list of potentially Dalish people.” She tugs on her own ear for good measure.

“You had your friend, the Dalish mage. Merrill,” Cassandra presses on. “Varric called her Daisy, and she’s in your book.”

“It’s Varric’s book, not mine,” Hawke says with a shrug. “But yes, Merrill… Merrill was just the type of person to be kind and caring. It was — is — her thing. I’m not sure if that’s a universal Dalish gesture of kindness or endearment, but there’s that.” She nudges Cassandra’s shoulder and ruefully says, “Lucky you if your Inquisitor does that for you. It took me ages before I managed to get Fenris to be that open about his affection in public. Varric already talked about it in his book, yes? Andraste’s tits, we were complete fools about it for years.”

Cassandra can feel her heart sink as Hawke rambles on. If it’s just a commonplace thing for the Dalish, then it must not mean much to Lavellan. Correction: it must not mean anything romantic to Lavellan. She’s just the type to place so much care and importance on platonic relationships. Cassandra wonders if Lavellan holds hands with anyone else, embraces anyone else, curls up beside someone else at night. Jealousy flickers before catching aflame and burning steadily and irrationally in her heart.

“That’s about all I have to really say on the matter. Any other questions?” Hawke says with a wave of her hand. She inspects Cassandra’s face before snorting, “Mmm, you’re looking a little too red, Seeker. Too much?” Hawke bites her lip and admits, “I can be a bit too much at times. My apologies if I was overbearing or if I pushed something a little too much on you. Varric and Fenris both tell me that I have a tendency to get invested in other people too much. Just a habit from so many years in Kirkwall.”

“A side effect of having a good heart, I think,” Cassandra replies. She’s still lost in her doubts, but she glances up at Hawke enough to say that. That’s one thing that remains true about Varric’s account. No matter how many stories about the Champion he might tell, the core of it remains the same: a good heart.

Hawke flashes a grateful smile and says, “Ooh, I’m going to have to remember that one for Varric. The goodness of my heart. Not that he’ll accept it as a particularly valid point against his thoughts on my choices, but it’s the thought that counts in the end. So, on to work-related topics?”

Cassandra nods gratefully. Enough on this subject. It never fails to make her chain of thought knot up and tangle into something incomprehensible and vast. 

“So, Corypheus,” Hawke says with a heavy exhale. They walk on in silence, and Hawke only speaks after they reach a relatively quiet and isolated part of Skyhold. “The problem I came to patch up,” she says in a clipped tone. Her eyes are stormy and flint-like as she bites out, “Bollocks. With a name like that, he was bound to go ‘Muahahaha’ at some point and go on some world domination spree. Problem is, I killed him before that could happen, and I thought that was the end of that. But no, he’s  _ still _ here, going ‘Muahahaha’ and moving on his world domination plan. Terrible, really.”

Cassandra focuses in on that. Varric mentioned that before, but she never really believed him. It was  _ Varric _ ; what else would she expect from him? She sets that thought aside to ask Hawke, “What kind of magic was he using when you fought him?”

“What do you expect? More blood and things of that sort,” Hawke grumbles. “Why can’t it ever be spit or a lock of hair?”

Cassandra gapes at Hawke and hesitantly asks, “You really want to encounter a  _ spit  _ mage?”

Hawke arches an eyebrow and says, “For variety, sure. But spit mages aside, he was using the body of a Grey Warden.  _ That’s  _ my main concern. The Wardens are gone but for what? Where did they go? And most importantly, does Corypheus still have that skill?” Her tone turns more sharp, angled, and quick as her words spill out of her.

Hawke bites her lip, and her hands twitch at her sides. Cassandra can sense the wild, fiery edges of her magic begin to buck up underneath Hawke’s control. Worry bleeds through bright and clear on Hawke’s face, and Cassandra puzzles over the reason why. “Your brother,” she says slowly. “He’s a Warden.”

“Exactly,” Hawke answers with a bittersweet quirk of her lip. “I haven’t seen my baby brother in ages, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with him. As his big sister, I can’t help but worry too much about him despite how pigheaded he can be. Can you believe it took him over a year after his Warden initiation for him to finally start sending me letters?” Hawke talks with a faster speed once more, the words veritably pouring out of her. Her hands move in wide gestures, and the thin veneer of calm shatters on Hawke’s face. Her voice can’t hide the sheer worry in her expression now, and it shakes as she whispers, “I lost a baby sister to the darkspawn once. I can’t lose Carver too.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Cassandra promises. “You had a Warden contact, yes? Lavellan will make sure that we find him. We even have a senior Warden with us, so he might be able to help too.” She even offers a soft tap on Hawke’s shoulder in exchange for all the pats that Hawke gave her.

“Thanks,” Hawke says before she rubs her eyes roughly. She coughs and glances away. “Carver’s a tough kid, always has been,” she says. “I don’t know where he is now, but he’s probably out there, making some darkspawn’s life an absolute hell. Good for him. And while he’s out there in the world, I’m going to make sure Corypheus won’t ever be able to touch him.” 

Hawke squares her shoulders as she speaks, and her gaze is strong and hard as silverite. In that moment, she looks every inch the Champion she denies herself to be.

“Good talk, Seeker,” Hawke says, her voice light but her expression still rigid. She slowly revolves until she’s gazing back at the way they came, and she says, “Now, that was a good walk, wasn’t it? I’d appreciate it if you could point me in the direction of where the Inquisitor is now. I think it’s time for me to have a little chat with her now.”

Cassandra looks at Hawke and sees that the Champion’s eyes are distant and shuttered. She’s at a loss for words, and once again, she wishes she had Varric’s talent with words or Lavellan’s talent for feelings. But when she looks at Hawke again, she thinks that the Champion might be better off with more space and less attempts at counseling. “Over there,” Cassandra points instead. “The last I heard, she was in a War Council meeting, and she’ll come out through Josephine’s office. Check there first, and if you don’t find her there, ask someone in the Main Hall.”

“Thanks,” Hawke says before she sets off. It’s a soft, barely murmured thing that Cassandra has to strain her ears to hear. 

Just before Hawke walks out of sight, Cassandra calls out, “Thank you! For what you told me!” She figures it’s the least she can say and doesn’t expect Hawke to respond, but the Champion raises her right hand and flashes a thumbs-up without turning around. Cassandra’s lips quirk up at that, and she turns to go about her own work for the day. After all, they have a tainted magister to kill, and Cassandra adds another reason to slaughter Corypheus on her list. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been a While since i've had the time to write for fun >:-( sorry if there are any grammar/spelling issues tho! i just haven't checked this too thoroughly before posting because i was impatient.  
> i will probably do a mix of "wicked eyes and wicked hearts" and "here lies the abyss" bc i'm just impatient for hawke and ballroom dancing but Not for adamant/the fade hahahah :") thanks for reading and thank you to everyone who subscribed aaa!!!! love y'all :") and pls let me know what you thought abt the new chapter!


	7. a sea of lies and lace

No word comes from Hawke yet. Her Warden contact is slow in sending letters and messages, and Hawke refuses to make a move unless her contact is ready to set it up. However, Hawke does go out on scout patrols sent to Crestwood with more frequency. She always comes back drenched in rain and mud — much to the dismay of some of the maids who have to clean off her muddy footprints off the freshly mopped floors — and without fail, Hawke always makes a beeline to the tavern first.

Cassandra has a few drinks with Hawke over the next couple of days, and she finds that Varric was spot-on with the way he characterized Hawke in his book. Her mannerisms are nearly identical to how he described it, and some of her phrases are word-for-word in the book as well. However, she now sees the places where Varric added more to the Champion. He made her more glorious, more triumphant, and more godlike in the places where the actual Hawke lacked it. The actual Hawke did have a bleeding heart for those in trouble, but Hawke never bore the burden of the Champion’s mantle with as much ease as she was written. Sometimes, Cassandra wonders if this was Varric’s way of protecting her. The Chantry would never touch Hawke now despite her being an apostate. The entirety of Thedas — or at least, those who read the book — would rise up in angry masses for the Champion of Kirkwall’s defense. A woman who was an unwitting player in Anders’s great plan. A woman who had only the best of intentions. A woman who sacrificed everything for the sake of a city. Varric’s book depicted a woman who surged forward to meet the tides of her own destiny instead of being tossed into it like the real-life situation was.

Cassandra has to shake her head at the sheer ingenuity of the dwarf. He loved his best friend enough to immortalize her as one of Thedas’s greatest heroes against the odds. Now, Cassandra can’t help but wonder how he will write about Lavellan and the Inquisition. She _knows_ he’s writing something about the Inquisition. Once, when they set up a camp, the wind blew his papers out of his hands and scattered them across the field. He hurried to grab them, but Cassandra reached a couple pages before he did. She read faster than he could run, and she caught a few words here and there. She shakes her head and tries to move on with her work for the day, but the fact remains that he is a writer at the core and a popular one at that. One day, he — and other historians, other witnesses, _others_ — will write about her. She hopes she won’t be called a traitor, a madwoman, or a fool, but they may be right. She does not fear the consequences of her own reputation, but she fears how her impact on history will affect _Lavellan._ History has never treated elves well, and she’ll be damned if they paint her Lavellan as a knife-eared fool for Cassandra’s choices.

Lavellan continues to help everyone with restorations despite people pleading with her to stop dancing along the edges of the roofs. She insists on doing as much as she can with repairs, and Solas eventually steps in to tell her to scaring other people. Cassandra watches them share secretive looks before bending down to pat the ground. Lavellan even gets on her knees and bends her head down to whisper some secret to the grass. She gets up and brushes off the grass sticking to her trousers before winking at Solas. He laughs heartily — a rare thing but _of course_ it is Lavellan who gets it out of him — and Solas leans down to do the same thing. Cassandra watches all of this with a dumbfounded expression.

Then, she hears Josephine coming. Rather, she can hear the rustles of Josephine’s stiff, gold blouse and the clicks of her heels against the stones inlaid in the ground before she actually sees the ambassador. “There she is,” Josephine exhales out before she braces herself and calls out, “Inquisitor! May I have a moment of your time?”

Solas and Lavellan freeze on the ground before looking up with guilty looks mirrored across their faces. They get up without a word and brush the grass and dirt off each other’s clothes as best as they can. Solas pats Lavellan’s shoulder and nudges her towards Josephine, and with a sulky sigh, Lavellan follows suit.

Cassandra busies herself with helping Cullen. The heft and weight of a wooden sword and shield in her hands is comforting, and the familiar ache of her muscles as she slashes and blocks soothes the stress threatening to build up at the back of her mind. Cullen watches carefully from the sidelines, and she almost scoffs. She will not break his recruits, contrary to popular thought. She was once a recruit once. She knows how much to push, how far to bend, and what her limits are. She will not break these green recruits; she knows better than that. If only emotional boundaries were so easily drawn and found as physical ones. The end of your stamina, how far a limb will bend before it breaks. Things of that nature.

At the end, sweat is dripping from her brow and all the recruits she’s worked with are exhausted. Exhausted, but not broken, and Cassandra knows they will rest and heal and become stronger in the process. The other recruits waiting their turn are watching her with wide eyes, and she catches more than a fair share of them who rake their gaze up and down their body. There’s one girl in particular who flushes a deep scarlet when she catches Cassandra looking back at her. She even ducks behind another recruit to hide her blushing face. However, behind the recruits, there is the familiar figure of Madame de Fer.

Cassandra turns to Cullen and subtly nods towards Vivienne. Cullen’s gaze follows in that direction, and his eyebrows shoot up. He abruptly clears his throat and calls out, “Recruits, we’re moving onto the training dummies. Grab your weapons and move out. Now!” He moves over to Cassandra and claps her shoulder before he whispers, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Cassandra snorts, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Cullen doesn’t look like he believes her, but he lets her go.

Vivienne walks over to the edge of the training ring with small, mincing steps as she says, “Cassandra, my dear, it looks like you got quite the workout in.”

“Just the usual,” Cassandra shrugs in response.

“I won’t waste words then,” Vivienne says coolly. “I know how you detest that sort of business. My dear, do try to help us find the object of your affections in the entirety of Skyhold.”

“My what now?” Cassandra says, her breath choking in the middle of her words. Object of her affections?

Vivienne laughs, high and mirthless, “Don’t play dumb with me, dear. You know exactly what I mean.”

It’s true. Cassandra knows precisely who Vivienne is referring to, and she resents the fact that literally everyone in Skyhold except for Lavellan herself seems to know about this. She exhales and says, “Alright, what happened now and where is Lavellan.”

Vivienne raises one perfectly tweezed brow and says smoothly, “The answer to the first question is that Josephine — dear angel, that one — managed to get us an invitation to the Winter Ball at Halamshiral. The answer to the second question is one I do not have. Would I be asking you where she is if I already knew, darling?”

“Point taken,” Cassandra concedes. “But why did she leave so suddenly?”

Vivienne drums her pointed nails against the railing of the training ring and drawls, “Do try to connect the dots, dear.”

“Oh no.”

"Oh yes.”

“She’s that unhappy about a ball?” Cassandra says with disbelief.

Vivienne tilts her head and comments, “Leliana did mention that she expected this kind of behavior from you rather than our lovely Inquisitor.”

“Oh, of _course_ , she did. Frankly, I should be offended,” Cassandra huffs out. She wipes the sweat from her brow, and Vivienne wrinkles her nose at the sheer action or perhaps the scent of it.

“Don’t be. It’s not worth your time,” Madame de Fer responds. “Do you know what _is_ worth your time though?”

“Yes. Fine,” Cassandra finally says. “I’ll go look for her.”

Cassandra checks in the Inquisitor’s quarters and the cavern below Skyhold, but Lavellan isn’t there. Instead, Cassandra finds Lavellan curled in Cassandra’s bed with a pot of tea steeping on her bedside table. Lavellan jolts when Cassandra first enters and just as quickly, she relaxes and curls up even tighter on her bed. _“Aneth ara, arasha,”_ she mumbles.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Cassandra elects to say as she sits down beside Lavellan. “I heard about the news.”

“A ball,” Lavellan answers flatly. “They intend to parade me in front of nobles and an empress who burned an entire alienage to the ground.”

“For influence,” Cassandra tries. “For reputation. For the future. You mentioned a future where Orlais fell to a demon army, yes?”

“They killed the empress first,” Lavellan says reluctantly. “And then Orlais fell. I know, _lethallan_ , I know. I know I must go and I know I must do my duty or however else Josephine wants to phrase it. I know I must, but that does not mean I am happy or satisfied with it.”

Cassandra tucks a few stray strands of Lavellan’s hair behind her ear and says, “If it makes you feel better, I will also have to go, and I never liked those kinds of events anyways. We’ll be together in our misery.”

“I would settle with just being together,” Lavellan grumbles. “No need to be miserable in order to be together. We could just go to the Hinterlands or to the Exalted Plains and enjoy our time there. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I know,” Cassandra soothes. “But duty calls.”

“Duty calls,” Lavellan concedes.

However, Josephine and Vivienne end up with another trouble on their hands when Lavellan refuses to wear Orlesian high fashion or the Inquisition uniform. Instead, Lavellan insists on wearing her traditional Dalish robes. Vivienne and Josephine look near-apoplectic when Lavellan brings up the idea at one of their “Let’s Not Piss Off The Orlesians At Their Fancy Party” meetings. Cassandra glances at the other companions to judge their expressions. Cullen simply looks thoroughly grateful to see that the focus and ire of the two women are focused on someone else instead of himself. Leliana looks utterly amused, but then again, a great deal of things amuse the spymaster. Cassandra settles down in her seat to watch everything unfold. She’s more on Cullen’s side; if Vivienne and Josephine focus on Lavellan, then they can’t focus on her. Besides, Cassandra is planning on only wearing the Inquisition uniform. There’s not much that the two can nitpick on her for.

However, Lavellan stands her ground and insists, “I will not bend to Orlesian tradition, and I will not bend to _shemlen_ rules.”

“But you are going to an _Orlesian ball_ , Inquisitor,” Josephine pleads. “You _must_ make a good impression and maintain both your reputation and the Inquisition’s!”

“Surely you don’t mean your ragged robes, darling,” Vivienne drawls. She rakes her gaze over Lavellan’s current outfit — a worn blouse, trousers with a tear along the hems, small stains — and furrows her brow.

Lavellan narrows her eyes as she says in a low and dangerous tone, “I will not wear the clothes of the people that slaughtered mine.”

That shuts everyone up.

Eventually, Josephine, Vivienne and Lavellan all reach a final conclusion on the outfit. Vivienne and Josephine buy the best and most expensive fabric that they can buy, and Lavellan goes out and hires Dalish seamstresses from a local clan to sew the outfit together. Cassandra checks in on what she now terms as “the sewing room” to see their progress, and more often than not, she spots Lavellan amongst their midst. Lavellan laughs, bright and clear and loud, and Dalish words spill off her tongue like rapid water. When Lavellan sees Cassandra, she immediately holds up her work to display it to the warrior with a delighted smile. Cassandra can’t help but reciprocate with another soft smile of her own before she proceeds with her day’s tasks.

When the outfit is done, the council is reconvened. Josephine has a wooden dressing screen set up, and they wait as Lavellan shucks off her torn trousers behind the screen. Then, after several minutes, Lavellan steps decked in her finery.

It is both armor and dress, robes and metal, all layered together in a beautiful array. Her collar is high and curved to accentuate her neck, and every metal piece is carefully soldered and foiled so that it gleams with a golden sheen under the light. All the colors are the same as the Inquisition’s crest, but there’s a subtlety to the colors that makes them more muted, more stylish. Even Cassandra has to admit that this shade of red is far more preferable to the garish blood-scarlet of the original uniform. There are thin layers of robes, all cinched together with a blue sash and a chain of gold, and they flare out at the bottom to form the skirt. Lavellan does a little spin while poised on her toes, and the skirt flares out to reveal embossed leather leg wrappings twining up her feet and legs.

Cassandra thinks Lavellan looks gorgeous.

Not that she isn't beautiful every single day, but the robes illuminate her beauty and make it seem like she was made from the very heavens.

Josephine holds up another length of fabric edged in gilt and embroidery and muses, “The cape does look stunning, but I think that it might get in the way of your movement.”

“I _must_ have the cape,” Lavellan insists. “I sewed many, many pockets into that cloak for a reason, and I _must_ have it.”

Vivienne shakes her head and chides, “I told you before. You cannot steal from the palace.”

Lavellan turns her wide, innocent look on full blast as she bats her eyes at Vivienne and whispers, “Who said I was planning to steal?”

Josephine groans and presses her fingers to her temples as she says loudly, “You yourself did. During the fitting. _Please_ , Inquisitor, you cannot _steal_ from the royal palace!”

“It’s not stealing if it was stolen from my people,” Lavellan says with a pout. “It’s like returning something.” However, after Josephine’s terrible look, Lavellan relents and gives Josephine a sly wink. She raises her right hand to extend her pinky out to Josephine. “If it will make you feel more comfortable, I will pinky swear on it,” she intones in a serious tone that seems so comical coming out of Lavellan. She adopts a more clipped noble accent than her broad Dalish accent as she continues, “Varric informed me about the importance of pinky swears. Come, Josephine, let us pinky swear on it.”

Josephine exhales heavily before she steps over to pinky-swear with Lavellan, but Cassandra spots the way Lavellan slips her left hand behind her back to cross her fingers. Cassandra blinks at that and almost laughs at the sheer absurdity of it. Evidently, Varric told her how to invalidate a pinky swear as well.

The journey to Orlais is typical. Certainly not uneventful, but typical. Somehow, Lavellan manages to convince Grand Duke Gaspard to get every single person from Lavellan’s inner circle invited to the party. That’s one concession that Lavellan refuses to give up. Either all of her friends go or she doesn’t go.

On the way there, M discovers a peculiar hat in Solas’s bag, and Vivienne and Dorian take potshots at the sheer ugliness of it.

“Were you really going to wear that at the Winter Palace?” Vivienne asks in an icy tone.

Dorian only guffaws, “I can’t believe you actually own a thing uglier than your apostate robes. I thought you already reached the pinnacle of dirty apostate fashion.”

“Dirty apostate hobo fashion,” Vivienne corrects.

Solas sits in silence and fumes over it, but Lavellan reaches over to place the hat on her own head. She squints her eyes as she thinks about it before tossing it over to her brother. When M puts it on, Lavellan dissolves into a fit of giggles. From there, she makes every single person wear it. Every. Single. Person. Which means Cassandra also had to wear it. The hat doesn’t fit quite right on the Iron Bull’s head, so Lavellan delicately hangs it from a single horn which somehow makes the hat seem worse.

They cross the border and head to the Winter Palace. As they draw closer, Lavellan retreats within herself. Her laughter is less frequent, and she’s constantly busy with meetings about Inquisition forces and Leliana’s spies placed around the palace. It’s a change that everyone notices almost immediately. Although a few conversations with Dorian or Varric or even Cassandra herself can still get a smile of Lavellan, it’s clear that the Inquisitor’s mind is elsewhere. Once they finally reach Halamshiral, Lavellan seems… Wilder. Almost feral. There’s a cold glint to her eye, and her smiles show more of her sharp teeth. Her laughter is completely absent, and she walks with silent steps, as if she’s tracking down prey in the wilderness. It’s a side of Lavellan that Cassandra rarely sees (if she ever sees it). It’s the look that Lavellan had when she stepped out of the tear in the Fade at Redcliffe. It makes her seem like a dangerous creature, and everyone else notices it as well. Her brother largely follows the same trend in behavior and no one can discern the reason why.

She largely ignores Gaspard, and when he tries to engage her in conversation, Lavellan flashes a vicious smile at Gaspard that shows too much of her too-sharp teeth. Her words are cool and perfectly chosen — thanks to all the training from Vivienne, Josephine, and Leliana — but Cassandra knows that this is a far cry from the Lavellan she thinks she knows. Josephine keeps trying to give Lavellan pointed looks to remind her of why she is here, but Lavellan shrugs her shoulders and continues on. Dorian and Cassandra exchanges looks, but even they have no reference for such a change.

Lavellan and M prowl through the gardens first, and Josephine watches Lavellan’s retreating back with worry etched over her brow. “Do you think she’ll break something?” she mutters absently to herself. “If she breaks something, I will have to pull my contacts with Duke Arcement for repairs and Lady Dubois to smooth over the political and social consequences. Yes, I think I’ll start by sending them a good merlot or pinot noir when the time comes.”

Leliana nudges Josephine and murmurs, “Lavellan will be fine. She is not a fool; she can handle herself. Let her mingle. For all we know, she might charm several nobles to our side through her charisma alone.”

“Charisma?” Vivienne cuts in. “More like quaint charm rather than anything else. But it’s true, our dear Lavellan does have a way of twisting people to her side.” She gives a withering look at Cassandra and says, “Some of us more than others, but still, it is a talent of hers. Don’t fret about it so much, Josephine. Focus on the rest of the Game.”

“Yes, look at how she wheedled all of her inner circle into the party with nary an interference on your part, Josie,” Leliana reassures. She pats Josephine’s shoulder and says, “Lavellan knows what she’s doing. Probably. Hopefully.”

“You were doing fine with the comforting until those last two words,” Josephine grumbles. However, she settles down and tries to relax the tense stiffness over her shoulders. By the time Gaspard turns around to glance at them again, she has the perfect facade of the Inquisitor’s main diplomat on.

Once they’re in the courtyard, they scatter and start currying approval with the nobles outside first. It’s a plan that they’ve all discussed. Sera fades into the shadows to do her own work with the palace servants. Solas joins her in a manner and stays on alert for careless nobles who don’t care if an elven servant is listening or not. Josephine finds old connections and forges new ones as she spins a sparkling tale of the Inquisition and the Herald. Somehow, the Iron Bull seems to be more in his element as he speaks, and Cassandra reminds herself of the fact that he is Ben-Hassrath; this _is_ his element. Subterfuge, all spun together in a sea of lies and lace. This is the Great Game, and Cassandra has never been good at playing it. She can only hope that the victors are her people and not Corypheus’s.

Cassandra spies Lavellan when she bends over to kneel beside a bush. Cassandra keeps her in her peripheral vision while forcing a smile to stay on her face. Evidently, the noble she’s talking to doesn’t notice at all because he keeps on blathering. He even dips half of his sentences into Orlesian as if Cassandra would understand. She keeps nodding along for the sake of the Inquisition. She will _not_ let down Josephine down tonight because letting Josephine down means hurting the Inquisition. Even if Lavellan does not give a damn about Orlais or the court’s opinion of her, Cassandra will care for her. She will not have Lavellan treated any lesser than what she deserves.

Finally, Cassandra extricates herself from the horribly boring conversation and follows after Lavellan. She has to tip-toe around several nobles to reach Lavellan who’s currently huddled by herself behind the safety of several large bushes. Cassandra almost misses her with the way she’s concealed in the foliage. The hitch of Lavellan’s breath is the only thing that signals her location, and Cassandra quickly bends down beside her. Lavellan is curled up and cradles something close to her chest. She glances up at Cassandra with wet eyes and whispers, “They’re halla statuettes.”

“I… see?” Cassandra says with bemusement. She doesn’t understand what about this statue is so important to Lavellan. Perhaps it reminds her of her favorite hart back at Skyhold?

Lavellan clutches the statue closer as she says in a low, soft, and slow tone, “They were carved by the clans. The original ones.” She sucks in a deep breath before saying, “Before the March.”

“Oh,” Cassandra breathes out.

“Look,” Lavellan says as she flips the statuette over. She points at the underbelly of the halla and explains miserably, “There are no marks along the sides right here. The stone is too smooth to be chiseled out and sanded. This was not manually carved. This was sung out of the stone by some artisan mage. It was an art that was lost with the fall. There may be some stone singers still left in the Dales — perhaps Clan Ralaferin — but no clan in the Free Marches knows how to make these anymore. We all know the stories though. I did not know that these statues still existed. I thought they were destroyed in the aftermath.”

Cassandra reaches out to stroke a finger down the statue, and Lavellan’s words are true. She can’t feel any mark other than smooth stone underneath her fingertip, but when she looks up at Lavellan, she’s startled to see angry tears glittering brighter in Lavellan’s eyes. Lavellan hisses, “Mother Giselle and the rest of the Chantry sisters like to say that I know nothing of Chantry history or Andrastianism. But I know. I know the dates and the names of my history and where it intersects with _theirs._ I am Dalish, I was built to remember.”

She gestures to a statue in the distance. When Cassandra squints at it, she realizes that it’s a statue of Andraste in flowing robes. “Maferath and Andraste — your god’s bride, my supposed patron — gave us the Dales for our part in the war. We traveled on foot — no aravels, no halla, nothing but the clothes on our backs — during the Long Walk.” She shakes her head as she says despairingly, “So many died. The bones of my people line the roads from Tevinter to Orlais. Even then, the survivors reached the Dales and built this city, stone by stone, tree by tree, life by life. We sang to the stones and coaxed the soil to flourish to make this our home. _Halamshiral_ means the end of the journey in elvhen. This was where we rebuilt ourselves. This is where we started piecing together the shards of our lost legacy.”

A tear spills over and tracks its way down Lavellan’s cheek. Her grip on the statuette grows tighter until her fingers are white-knuckled over the graceful arc of the halla’s back. Lavellan lifts her head up to survey the gardens before she snarls, “Now, look at this place. Look at those white walls, the gilt that covers everything that the _shemlen_ touch. Look at the way these ignorant, money-fattened people dance on the broken dreams of my people. They _burned_ us, they burned our homes, and forgot that once upon a time, their precious god’s bride shared our burden and marched with us. They forgot that their precious Andraste once called Shartan ‘brother.’”

Cassandra leans away from Lavellan, unsettled by the vitriol that laces through Lavellan’s voice. “The Chantry isn’t like that,” she says aghast.

“Is it?” Lavellan challenges. “If the Chantry isn’t like that, then what is it like?”

Cassandra shuts her eyes and deliberates over her answer before saying slowly, “Safety and trust. Honor and faith that the Maker will guide us all to the right place in the end.”

“How seldom does reality match that ideal,” Lavellan bitterly replies. Her gaze slips back down to the halla statuette, and her countenance turns thoughtful rather than livid. “Then, do you think the Chantry should stay as it is?” she asks instead.

“Cast the Chantry aside, and new problems replace old ones. We will learn nothing from history. but it needs reform,” Cassandra answers, sureness stippling through her voice.

Now, Lavellan lifts her head to match Cassandra’s gaze. “What would you change then?” she presses.

Cassandra looks at the iron in Lavellan’s stare, and she wonders if she should bend the truth to appease Lavellan’s rage. But she does not. She will not lie to her. Instead, Cassandra steadily says, “The Circle of Magi has its place, but needs reform. Let the mages govern themselves, with our help. Let the templars stand not as the jailors of mages, but as protectors of the innocent. We must be vigilant, but we must also be compassionate to all peoples of Thedas, human or no. That is what I would change. If we are to spread the Maker's word across the world, we must do so with open hearts and open hands."

Lavellan loosens her grip on the statue, and her fingers flush pink instead of blanched white. “You have a different opinion than most I speak to about the Chantry,” she admits.

“Do you even speak to others about the Chantry?” Cassandra asks, absolutely astounded by this new revelation.

Lavellan wipes a hand across her face, taking most of her tears with it. She shudders out a long, heaving breath before breaking into a small laugh. “I am the Herald of Andraste,” she says, “I am expected to speak of the Maker daily to dispense wisdom directly from your god and your god’s bride as if I am Varric’s editor trying to get out new chapters on time.”

Cassandra snorts loudly before offering a hesitant embrace. She feels absolutely silly with her arms outstretched, but the privacy of the topiary and Lavellan’s habitual need for touch eases the discomfort. Lavellan wastes no time and nuzzles into her arms. Her robes are soft beneath Cassandra’s touch, and the weight of Lavellan in her arms is comforting and familiar. Cassandra is no stranger to hugs from Lavellan, but this one feels markedly different. It’s not a _bad_ kind of different. Not yet, at least.

Lavellan lets out a sigh before she says in a muffled voice, “My clan is named Lavellan after one of the Emerald Warriors who mastered the _Dirth’ena Enasalin_. That is… That is like the Knight-Enchanters of today. They stole their knowledge from us, the original bearers of those arts.” Lavellan makes a derisive noise in the back of her throat before she nestles in closer and continues, “After the march devastated the Dales, Lavellan led a few survivors across the plains, past the legions of templars, to the Free Marches. No tree was planted for her death in Din’an Hanin, her name and epitaph was not engraved in the book of legacies, no song was sung for her honor in the place where she first received her blade hilt for the arts of the arcane. She died in the grasses of the Free Marches instead, far away from the resting places of her ancestors.”

Lavellan reaches her hand out — her Lavellan, Cassandra thinks, not Lavellan of this history — and magic coalesces in her outstretched palm to form the misty outline of her spirit blade. “She has become an ancestor of her own now. Mine. Her blood runs through my veins now. I bear her blade and her name now.”

“I… I am sorry,” Cassandra says, at a complete loss.

Lavellan shakes her head and with a resolute tone, she says steadily, _“Tel’abelas_ , you are not the person responsible for this. You are not Divine Renata.” Lavellan’s gaze unfocuses and shifts to some point in the distance beyond Cassandra. Her lips curl back to reveal the sharp points of her teeth, and she says in a low, terrible voice, “If your Divine was Renata instead of Justinia, there would be no need for Corypheus. I would have cracked her bones open just like she broke my people.”

Cassandra rears back, startled once more, and pulls her hands away from Lavellan’s skin. Her eyes are wide, and she blinks twice before saying, _“Lavellan.”_ Every inch of her is shocked at the way Lavellan looks right now. She always knew Lavellan wasn’t never meant to be underestimated, but this? Right now, Lavellan looks like a coiled dragon, sharp with her anger and dangerous with every touch.

Lavellan’s eyes slowly focus back on Cassandra. Her expression tightens and chills into an icy mask of composure as she says, “My apologies, Seeker. I did not mean to frighten you.”

It hurts when Lavellan says her title with that clipped tone. It hurts even more when Lavellan pulls away entirely and pockets the halla statuette in her cloak. Cassandra tries to say something along the lines of _no, wait, please, explain to me, I don’t understand._ However, the best thing she can muster up is a series of sputtered sounds that don’t make any coherent sense. Lavellan exhales out a pent-up breath and says, “It is alright, Cassandra. I am simply stunned to see that remnants of my people still remain in Halamshiral. To the palace. I would like to get our work done here as soon as we can.”

“Lavellan, _please,”_ Cassandra pleads.

Lavellan pauses and asks coldly, “What is there left to say?”

Cassandra has no words. She stands up as well, hands hanging limply at her sides, and stares at Lavellan with a dumbfounded expression. This is another facet of Lavellan that she’s only glimpsed in small bits and pieces, but when she sees all the broken, jagged edges of her, she doesn’t know how to react.

Lavellan sees the way Cassandra looks at her, and her face slackens and softens into a more familiar smile. However, Cassandra can still see the unshed tears glittering in Lavellan’s eyes. Lavellan reaches out to brush her hand across Cassandra’s cheek before cupping her face with both hands. “Do not worry, _arasha,”_ she tries with a forced chuckle. “I am fine. I will not kill any Divines tonight.”

“There are no Divines to kill anymore,” Cassandra says. The words fall off her tongue unbidden and leave a bitter aftertaste on her tongue.

Lavellan bites her lips and says, “Then, I will not kill the empress tonight.”

“That’s what we’re here to do though,” Cassandra softly points out. For once, Lavellan’s hands feel like a weight on her skin rather than a welcome comfort.

Lavellan turns on her heel, and the candlelight in the distance shines off of the burnished metal of her robes. Just before she leaves, Cassandra catches Lavellan’s wrist to ask, “What does _arasha_ mean?” It’s an impulsive question, but nearly everything about her love is either impulsive or held back. It’s a question that had been simmering in her mind for so long, but finally, she decides to ask. Why not now?

She thinks Lavellan will give her nothing more than a cryptic answer, just like she always does. Cassandra resigns herself to ask Solas later, but Lavellan stops and considers it. Lavellan’s gaze pierces right through her — as if she was examining each cog and gear in Cassandra’s mind — until she finally says, “My happiness. _Arasha_ means my happiness.”

She turns to leave with a sense of finality, and she weaves in and out of the crowd on silent steps. Her fluttering cloak and robes trail behind her in swathes of thin fabric that flutter in her wake, but Cassandra can only think of one thing at that moment.

_Her_ happiness. Lavellan considered Cassandra _her_ happiness.

Regardless of Cassandra's personal turmoil, their motley group manages to gather near to enter the palace itself. Lavellan’s back is ramrod straight as they announce her first with all of the titles she accrued over the short number of months instead of the Grand Duke. _Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor._ The man even announces her title as the First of Clan Lavellan despite stumbling over the words. Cassandra watches Josephine’s and Vivienne’s look of surprise and hides a small smirk. Lavellan must have been the one to force that. The Inquisitor can be her own force of nature when it comes to things that she wants. When she glances at Lavellan, she sees a glassy stare on Lavellan’s face before she begins to walk down the stairs. Her lips are pressed thinly together in a smile that’s vastly different than her usual smile at Skyhold or at missions.

Lavellan notices Cassandra’s gaze, and her expression splinters just enough to reveal a weak but more genuine smile for Cassandra. It also cracks open enough to let Cassandra see the simmering rage pent up inside Lavellan. There are very few times where Lavellan has been truly angry, and this is one of them. It startles Cassandra, but Lavellan smoothes over her expression with a shocking speed. Lavellan dusts off some invisible dirt from her clothes before she proceeds down the aisle with a kind of regality that rivals Empress Celene herself.

Then, when all the announcements are over and Lavellan goes up to meet Empress Celene, she does not bow. She does not bend her head and waits for Celene to bow first. That alone causes murmurs among the Orlesian nobility. Then, Lavellan dips back in an Dalish manner which elicits a loud gasp from the nobles. Lavellan signs out a symbol with her hands before nodding her head in the most shallow bow possible. Her tone is icy at best, but Lavellan masks it all with that same, thin smile. Her teeth flash, and in the light of all the chandeliers, they look sharper than Cassandra ever realized. Beside Cassandra, Solas looks ridiculously pleased with the way the nobility reacts to Lavellan. When she nudges him, he only whispers, “They do not know that she is a wolf walking amongst men. Let her talk, Seeker. This is _her_ battlefield now.”

And he’s right. Lavellan moves through the dancefloor like she’s on a battlefield. She dances with the nobles for the sake of court approval, but she always takes the lead no matter who she dances with. Her footsteps are light as she guides her partner with infinite grace, and when they do not follow, Lavellan pushes harder until they are forced to move along with her. Leliana, Josephine, and Vivienne watch Lavellan like hawks as they nod with approval. Then, their attention splinters off into their own separate interests.

Varric, however, keeps watching Lavellan. When Cassandra stands beside him, he sighs, “Man, they really did a number on her, huh.”

“Yes, they did,” Cassandra replies. Days that stretched into weeks of diplomatic training for a single ball. Vivienne trusted Lavellan the least when it came to court politics, but it seems like her lessons were coming out in full force with Lavellan.

“Look at the way she’s dancing,” Varric points out. “There’s no way she did that without practice. Who did she practice with? Curly?”

“They made Cullen be her dance partner at first,” she answers. “But Lavellan would not stop complaining about it.”

“Why not?” Varric scoffs. He jerks his thumb behind him and says, “Look at Curly over there. He’s such a popular kid with the ladies.”

Cassandra glances behind her to see their Commander surrounded by tittering nobles and hides a smile. “And he looks absolutely despondent about it,” she replies.

Varric laughs out loud now. “That’s part of the fun,” he says as he points out some of the more… Excessive nobles. There’s one woman with a live bird encaged in her tall wig that leans forward to talk to Cullen. Her breasts are nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress while the bird screams into Cullen’s ear.

Cassandra laughs as well and says, “Well, yes, it _is_ fun to tease him.”

“Exactly, Seeker,” Varric says approvingly. He claps her on the back and says, “Now, we’re on the same page. But back to the question. If she refused to dance with Cullen, who did she dance with? Dorian?”

Cassandra snorts, “Dorian ended up teaching her a Tevinter bar dance. Krem and the Chargers found out about it and it turned into a drinking party combined with different styles of drunk Tevinter dancing.”

“How’d she like that?” Varric says while trying to hold in his laughter.

Cassandra arches her brow and deadpans, “You already know the answer to that.”

Varric guffaws, “I do, but Seeker.” In a sing-song voice, he leans in to croon, “You’re still not answering my question.”

Cassandra flushes red and grumbles, “She danced with me. Fine?” Lavellan specifically requested _her_ , citing that Cassandra was once a noble and knew how to dance just as well as Cullen. If Cassandra remembers correctly, she thinks she remembers some weak excuse about how Cassandra fit her better in terms of height and reach and how Cullen constantly smelled like wet feathers and sweat. Cassandra hides a smile at the memory, but instantly, the smile fades away when she sees Varric’s wide smirk.

Amidst Varric’s chuckles, she stalks off, absolutely irritated by Varric’s smugness. She drains the glass of red wine she’s holding and leaves it on a table for empty glasses that’s lined up against a wall. As she sighs, she looks up to see Lavellan making her way over to her. Lavellan beckons Cassandra closer, and when Cassandra follows, Lavellan pushes her against a curtained window and brackets her with her limbs. She’s pressed against Cassandra’s body, skin to skin, heart to heart, and Cassandra can feel the entirety of Lavellan’s warmth.

Lavellan leans in and in a hushed voice, she murmurs, “Pretend we are having fun.”

Cassandra won’t deny the fact that Lavellan’s proximity combined with the huskiness of her whisper sends heat shooting straight to her core. Desire curls in her mind, and Cassandra struggles to say, “What do you mean by this? Fun?!”

Lavellan leans in, and her hair forms a thin curtain around them. However, she answers, “Everyone else seems to be doing this. Look over there.”

Cassandra doesn’t have to look to know that there are far too many nobles necking in hidden or not-so-hidden nooks of the palace. Suddenly, she wonders if Lavellan would kiss her like the others near them, kiss her hot and heavy right there against the shadows that the curtains offer.

_“Ir abelas, arasha_ , but I needed to tell you that we are moving towards the restricted areas now. Sera and I took care of a couple of things, Bull and Dorian are on the other side and circling back to us,” Lavellan informs her. “This was the best way I could think of telling you without arousing suspicion.”

Well, Lavellan was arousing _something_ — more like _someone_ — at least, if not suspicion.

“Did you find what you needed?” Cassandra asks instead.

“Almost,” Lavellan answers in that same, heady whisper. _“Isala ghilan, arasha_. We need to go into the restricted areas now, and I suspect there will be fighting.” She licks her lips, and excitement glints in her eyes for the first time that Cassandra’s seen so far tonight. She leans in even closer which Cassandra didn’t think was humanly possible and murmurs, “It will be more fun than this mindless dancing.”

Ambrette, embrium, and the crisp, electrifying scent of magic all wash over Cassandra with the close proximity, and she shuts her eyes and inhales. Settles her nerves as much as she can. Tamps down the desire that floods her veins and curls hot and heavy further below. Opens her eyes again. A smile.

“You dance very well,” Cassandra points out.

Lavellan taps Cassandra’s nose as she leans away, “Ah, _ma serannas._ It was thanks to all the practice we did together. I will meet you where we agreed to before.” She winks and leaves, happier than she’s ever been all evening.

Lavellan’s smile only grows brighter as she cuts through the enemies awaiting her within the depths of the Winter Palace. Magic races along the lines of her body and streams off her fingertips to swallow the Venatori and their agents in flame. The blood that spills across her clothes are hidden by the scarlet of the Inquisition, and for the stains that are on the deep blue or gold, they quickly evaporate with the sheer heat radiating off of the Herald. Cassandra thinks that Lavellan must be a star — a furious and dangerous star wreaking vengeance on the halls of her ancestors — and she’s just another person caught up in her corona. Dorian and Sera pause in the fight and gape at Lavellan, but Lavellan only uses that opportunity to cut down another enemy.

It’s no surprise or wonder to any of them when Lavellan exposes Florianne in front of the entire court and then proceeds to call for her execution. Briala smiles down from above, and Lavellan looks up, first at Briala and then at Cassandra. Her expression is that of triumph when her gaze meets Briala’s, but when she looks over at Cassandra, her face morphs into one of genuine relief.

Her business is done now. She is no longer beholden to this palace.

Lavellan gets swallowed up in the crowd after Celene publicly thanks for her for her efforts. Every noble wants to get a piece of that thanks in the form of connections with the Inquisitor herself. Vivienne, Leliana, and Josephine intercede to stop them from trampling over Lavellan in their attempts to get closer to her, and they force the nobles back with promises of letters, wine, and vague allusions to promises that they will not keep.

Lavellan slips out of the crowd and falls into step beside Cassandra. Cassandra herself is slipping out of the ballroom to the balconies to get some fresh air. The atmosphere of the court was choking and cloying with the scent of excessive perfume and the deceitful lies that spill out from every Orlesian aristocrat’s mouth. Now that the entire ordeal is done and over with, she has no need to stay inside with the rest of the brainless ninnies that dance vapidly in the ballroom. She welcomes Lavellan’s company much much more than any other person.

Lavellan hums a tune under her breath — some whimsical lullaby that Cassandra doesn’t recognize — and bounces a little in her step. Then, with a sudden breath, she asks, “Would you like to dance?”

Cassandra throws her a sideways glance and says, “I’m afraid I don’t dance.”

Lavellan’s gaze flickers over Cassandra’s face before she asks, “And why not? You danced with me during our practices.”

“I never liked it much when I was young,” Cassandra chooses to say instead. That’s a lie; she loved to dance with Anthony and fool around during their dance lessons at her uncle’s house. However, the act of dancing lost much of its joy after Anthony died. There was never really much of a point to a dance after he died. Lavellan’s dance practices brought some of that enjoyment back, but here in Orlais, the act seems devoid of its enchantment.

“But is combat not like a dance?” Lavellan presses. “With swords instead of holding hands and armor instead of dresses.” She quietly laughs and says, “Vivienne says that dresses and masks are like your armor on the ballroom floor. The Great Game is its own battle, according to her.”

“Of course Vivienne would say that,” Cassandra scoffs. The woman is nothing if not persistent about her insistence that the Great Game was the grandest and most important gamble in Thedas. Perhaps it was to her, but to Cassandra, there as much more in life worthy of putting your life at stake for other than a few dances and secrets hidden behind masks. No, she would much rather stay with her Seekers and her iron-bound faith. Although, the Seekers were in shambles and so was her faith. An unfortunate turn of events, it was.

Lavellan peers at Cassandra’s face and leans in closer, and Cassandra can see every glittering and glinting facet of Lavellan’s reflective eyes. Lavellan’s brow creases with worry, and Cassandra realizes that she’s fallen silent for too long. Lavellan quietly says, “If you are uncomfortable with a dance, then I will not bother you any further.”

“No, no!” Cassandra hurries to say. She doesn’t know why but she reaches out to grasp Lavellan’s hand as she says earnestly, “I would be happy to dance with you.”

Lavellan smiles, bright and warm, and somehow, in the dim shadows along the curtains, it feels more intimate. The music plays on, and Cassandra feels light on her feet. She reaches out a hand, but she’s already too late. Lavellan loops her arm with Cassandra’s, and the two sail off among the crowds of nobles and servants alike.

Although Cassandra has never bothered with dresses for most of her life, she almost wishes she wore one for the feeling of having satin, chiffon, silk, so much more, brush against her legs as she sways to the music underneath the light of the glass and gilt chandelier. Lavellan’s fingers are initially and strangely cold, but they warm up both with magic and the touch they share as they dance. Her eyes seem to shine even brighter under the lights, and she takes the lead to allow Cassandra to step with her in rhythm with the music. Cassandra wonders how many practices Lavellan had to endure to be _this_ good, this graceful. She does not remember Lavellan stepping so surely and with such ease during their practices. Then again, Cassandra realizes that Lavellan has always held some sort of grace to her at all times. However, a sudden flare of jealousy sparks in Cassandra’s chest when she thinks about Lavellan dancing with Cullen or Dorian or Vivienne or anyone else she must have cajoled for practice. Still, they slip slowly towards the main ballroom as they dance, and during the peak of the music, she finds themselves in the dance floor, still swirling and stepping in sync with each other.

When the music comes to the end, they tug each other towards where the balconies are. They laugh and whisper, darting smiles and hands clasped together, before they stumble out on an empty balcony. The moon is luminous and full as it radiates on them and wreaths Lavellan’s face ethereally.

Cassandra stops and _looks_ at her, and the silence settles over them. Then, Cassandra abruptly says, “Thank you for dancing with me.”

“It was my pleasure,” Lavellan answers.

“I know…” Cassandra trails off. She clears her throat and begins again, “I know that you could have danced with others more… Talented at dancing or more beautiful and graceful than I am. I want you to know that I appreciated it.” She stumbles over her words, and quite frankly, she feels like she’s young and naive all over again.

Lavellan tilts her head and confusion settles over her expression as she asks, “What are you talking about? Why would I not choose you to dance with? You are beautiful, more beautiful than other people here. You are strong, you are brave, you fight in combat so gracefully, and you were just as graceful when we danced together. I would not have chosen anyone else.” Her voice is strong with conviction, and Cassandra blushes a deep scarlet. Lavellan leans in even closer to whisper, “I meant it when I said you were beautiful. I think you are the most beautiful woman here.” She’s so close that their lips are almost touching, and they gaze at each other. Cassandra swears that there are _stars_ in Lavellan’s eyes, and they stay together like that for a moment more.

“You break tradition so easily,” Cassandra says breathily. She suddenly feels the heat of the wine, the heat of the ballroom, the heat of her emotions, rushing to her cheeks.

Lavellan pulls back slightly to smile and say, “I am Dalish, Cassandra.” She gestures to her clothes. The Dalish design is simple, elegant, and yet, complicated in every way. There is delicate embroidery along the hems, knots that Cassandra would never know how to undo, and the fabric falls in graceful swoops around Lavellan’s frail body. She’s not as thin with hunger as she first was during the initial days of the Inquisition, but she’s still smaller than Cassandra. Lavellan looks back up at Cassandra and laughs lightly, “I do not care what they think of me. I follow my own traditions instead of the ones from the people that marched onto my own.”

Ah, that piece of history. Cassandra looks down, distinctly shamed. She still does not think that the Divine March on the Dales was merited. No matter how much she thinks about it, it does not feel like justice to her. Lavellan’s moment in the gardens does not go unforgotten, and the memory rushes back. _Lavellan’s angry tears. The halla statuette. History whetting Lavellan’s rage._

But Lavellan lifts her chin with a gentle touch. “I have said this before. You are not Divine Renata. You are Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. It is not your fault, so there is no need to feel ashamed about it, “ she chides. “History is history, and the Chantry is the Chantry. I will never understand what about the Maker made the _shemlen_ march on the Dales. But it is done. I am descended from those that were sundered from their homes. It defines my origin but I define myself. And I define myself as one who does not break or bend for those who expect something else from me that I do not wish to give. It is simple as that. I follow my own tradition instead of breaking ones meant for other people.”

“I see,” Cassandra says. Even though Lavellan says her full name, the way she says it with her smooth, rolling accent makes it sound the most appealing it’s ever sounded in her entire life. Lavellan’s words also make sense in a way, and she wishes she was brave enough to do what Lavellan does. Perhaps she would have fared much better off during her younger days if she believed in an attitude like this. “Brave soul,” she whispers.

Lavellan tilts her head and chuckles, “Not brave, only stubborn.”

Cassandra brushes her fingertips across Lavellan’s cheek before confirming, “Brave, stubborn soul.”

Lavellan flushes a pale pink before she laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s a beautiful sound and elicits a chuckle out of Cassandra as well. Lavellan reaches out to grab Cassandra’s hand and the two sway on the balcony together. They dance to a rhythm of their own, the rhythm of their heartbeats in tune with each other, and Lavellan tightens her grip on Cassandra’s. Lavellan bends in to lean her forehead against Cassandra’s shoulders, and instinctively, Cassandra bends her head down to meet her. Their foreheads touch once more, and both of them flutter their eyes shut. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, they open them to gaze into each other’s eyes. Cassandra thinks that she could get lost in Lavellan’s eyes for an eternity.

Cassandra angles her head just enough for her to lean in closer, and she’s only several centimeters away from Lavellan’s lips. Just one moment further, and she could do what she’s dreamed of for months. Lavellan’s eyes flutter shut, and Cassandra stops, frantically wondering what she should do.

The moment lasts too long, and suddenly, Lavellan’s eyes open again and she steps back. A small smile stays on her lips, and she looks like she’s about to say something more before something shutters over her expression. She reaches out her hand to brush her fingertips across Cassandra’s lips before she shakes her head. With that, she takes her leave and Cassandra watches her leave with an indescribable ache in her heart. Her slim, slight figure veritably disappears behind all the ostentatious masks and elaborate outfits of the other guests. Cassandra touches her lips with her fingertips and feels her heart pound strangely as she gazes out on the ballroom. The rhythm of the music still resonates with her, and the memory of the dance settles vividly around her.

But she’s left alone on the balcony, and soon, the night breeze chills her skin and steals away all the warmth Lavellan gave her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
>  _isala ghilan:_ i need your help  
>  _arasha:_ my happiness
> 
> thoughts:  
> i think the entire wicked eyes and wicked hearts quest would be incredibly bitter for an elvhen inquisitor. like, the amount of history seeped into halamshiral and the history between the elves and the humans wouldn't be so easily forgotten. from the small details like the halla statuettes to the reality of what's happening to the elves of orlais would certainly get lavellan riled up. (or at least, my lavellan)
> 
> and whooOOO boy i promise!!! this silly little slow burn will end soon!! the light at the end of the wlw tunnel is coming!!! but god, the sheer amount of unresolved sexual and romantic tension is so thick between these two dense, lovesick fools... i still love these two so much though :") i also have quite a fair bit of scenes between the past couple of chapters, so i might upload them separately just for funsies. keep an eye out for that uwu
> 
> and thank you so much to everyone for commenting and leaving kudos and bookmarking!!! truly, the comments manage to make my entire day and motivate me to write even more. thank you <3 take care! i'll see you in the next chapter


	8. like open fields and open skies

Cassandra can’t get Lavellan’s touch from Halamshiral out of her memory. When she dreams, she can feel Lavellan’s warm weight pressed close to her body and the sensation of Lavellan’s fingers brushing across her lips. She wakes up in the morning with desire still clamped on her mind and tension in every muscle of her body. 

Lavellan avoids her once more, and in turn, Cassandra avoids Lavellan. She loses herself in training and in work. She is  _ so close _ to rooting out the last of the evils on the Seeker to-do list, so to speak, and she’s searching for the last remnants of the Order.

That’s why she gladly welcomes the tempestuous flurry that Hawke brings with her when she arrives from Crestwood. 

Frankly, Hawke’s timing is brilliant. Only a week after the ball, she arrives with good news. Her Warden contact is waiting for them. Lavellan is equally pleased and takes on the new task with a renewed vigor. When she selects a few people to accompany her into Crestwood, her gaze flickers over to Cassandra before moving on to Dorian and Varric. “Varric must go because he knows Hawke best,” she says slowly. “And I want Dorian because there are reports of undead in Crestwood.”

“You should bring a warrior, Inquisitor,” Cullen says. “You need a blade between you and the undead.”

Lavellan purses her lips, and Cassandra thinks she will pick Bull or Blackwall. Either one except for her. This is a game they have played before. A game of distance in which they skirt around each other and their awkward feelings and words. However, Lavellan’s gaze settles on Cassandra and she says, “Then I will bring Cassandra. Her shield has protected me before, and it will protect me now.”

Cassandra does not say a word and chooses to incline her head towards Lavellan. When she focuses on Lavellan’s face, she sees the way Lavellan bites her lip with worry. It shouldn’t be attractive, but the motion makes Cassandra fixate on Lavellan’s lips for half a second before she tears her gaze away. No. She would not demean Lavellan like this.

So, they leave in the same silence. Well, Dorian, Varric, and Hawke fill the gaps in between with their constant chattering, but Cassandra knows that there must be something off in the atmosphere. 

When they arrive, Crestwood is rainy and miserable and muddy.  _ This  _ is what gives Ferelden its reputation for mud in Cassandra’s opinion.

Fractured green light exudes out of the flooded lake and pulses in time with Lavellan’s anchor, and the rain constantly pouring down from the sky diffuses the light even more. The rain isn’t like the sheets of water misting across the Stormy Coast; this kind is more of a miserable downpour as if the clouds themselves were sobbing. Demons and undead shamble across the mud, and they leave tracks behind as they drag their limbs across the dank soil.

Altogether, it’s a rather terrible experience.

None of the scouts predicted the weather this badly. Cassandra wouldn’t be as mad about the weather if it wasn’t causing their own party to splinter. Dorian constantly complains about the mud and water splashing into his fine leather boots while Varric and Hawke constantly tease and prod him about it. Lavellan — oh, sweet, lovely Lavellan — constantly stops the group to pick herbs and chip ores off rocks. Cassandra almost screeches when Lavellan splashes into the lake to pick blood lotus, heedless of the undead rising above the water to surround her. 

In the end, they’re all forced to retreat to a cave for the night. None of the wood that they find is dry enough to start a fire, so they’re left with the fire that the mages can produce. At some point, Dorian tries to spark a flame over the wood again, but he miscalculates the trajectory of his fireball. Instead it lands at Cassandra’s feet, and only Lavellan’s quick barrier spell is there to save her from the burn. 

“I missed Ferelden,” Hawke says with fondness. She gazes out at the downpour from the mouth of the cave before turning back. She shakes the water off her armor, scattering water droplets everywhere, and Dorian scowls at her.

Varric only snorts, “Even all the mud?”

“Listen, Varric,” Hawke retorts. “You know it got just as wet over on the Wounded Coast.”

Varric chortles and slaps his knee. “First off,” he starts. “The weather on the Wounded Coast was fantastic! Sandy and a little balmy and a little misty at worst. Mist and pouring rain are two very different things.”

Hawke shrugs, “Maybe it’s the Fereldan part of me that likes this so much then.”

Dorian lifts his head up and drops the wet wood in his hands to crossly say, “My dear Champion, only fools would enjoy this weather.”

Hawke slaps Dorian’s back, and Cassandra winces. She knows how hard Hawke’s pats can be. “Oh, don’t worry so much, Dorian,” Hawke says with an easy grin. “You’re just not used to the weather yet.”

“Miss Hawke, I will  _ never _ be used to the weather,” Dorian snaps back. He resumes trying to light the wet wood on fire again, but the best he can muster up is a faint sizzle and a wisp of smoke.

Lavellan leans against Dorian, propping her chin up on his shoulder. “Do not mind him so much,” she says. A soft smile curls around the edges of her lips, and she points out, “He complained just as much when we went to the Fallow Mire.”

Dorian pushes Lavellan away with his elbow as he sourly replies, “Don’t even bring up the Fallow Mire again. I told you once and I told you twice and I’ll tell you as many times as I need to. Never. Bring. Me. To. The. Fallow. Mire. Again.” He punctuates each word of his last sentence with a spark flying from his fingertips. It doesn’t have as much of a dramatic effect when the wood doesn’t catch on fire though.

Lavellan resumes her former position and muses, “I brought everyone to the Fallow Mire. Not even Vivienne complained as much as you.”

Cassandra watches Lavellan with a touch of jealousy. Normally,  _ she’s _ the one that Lavellan drapes herself over. Easy touches, looping arms around arms, and more. She tamps her jealousy down and says, “Oh, Vivienne complained just as much as our friend here. She wore an embroidered gown and silver earrings to the Fallow Mire. Who wears that to a bog?”

Dorian drops the wet wood again with disgust and mimics the Sky Watcher they met in the Fallow Mire. “Preposterous is what you wore to a bog, Orlesian,” he says with a deep bellow.

Lavellan breaks into small giggles, but she manages to say, “It was not that bad, Dorian. You are just being… How does Vivienne describe Dorian?”

“She called him a fish without teeth once,” Varric helpfully offers. “Also a Tevinter rat.”

Dorian gestures to the outdoors and says with a loud, dramatic sigh, “Yes, yes, it wasn’t that bad, says the woman who was almost murdered by demons and undead while picking blood lotus!”

Lavellan grimaces and says defensively, “We needed blood lotus for the jars of bees!”

“Sera can risk her own life for her own damn bees,” Dorian snaps. His expression sobers and he says in a low and dangerous tone, “Not you.  _ Never _ risk your life like that again.” He exhales and says more lightly, “As your best friend, I am legally entitled to tell you this.”

“Hold on now, Sparkler,” Varric cuts in. “Since when did  _ you _ get the title of Birdie’s best friend?”

“Self-awarded and self-claimed,” Dorian says with a smug smirk. “No one else can touch the title now.”

“Your Tevinter is showing, Sparkler,” Varric laughs. He pulls out a small cloth and starts wiping and polishing Bianca. 

Dorian raises an eyebrow and declares, “Let it! But the sentiment still stands.”

“Exactly,” Cassandra now says. “I don’t want to…”  _ Lose you, _ her mind supplies, but instead, she finishes, “I don’t want to see you get hurt, Lavellan.”

_ “Ir abelas, _ I did not intend to worry. I just wanted to help,” Lavellan says quietly. She fidgets with the edge of her sleeve, and Cassandra can see the stains of blood lotus juice still on her fingers and wrists.

Varric sighs heavily and sets Bianca down. “Birdie, you help all the time,” he says as he gestures over to Lavellan with his cleaning cloth. “You’re here to help the Wardens out too. You don’t need to always worry about every single person in Thedas to make it matter. Honestly, you remind me of Hawke.” 

He nudges the Champion in the side with his elbow, and she indignantly says, “Excuse me, Varric, I think you’re being entirely unfair. Uh, what did you say, Cassandra? Back then?”

“A side effect of having a good heart,” Cassandra answers.

Hawke nods at Cassandra before turning back and giving Varric a triumphant shove. “Exactly!” she crows. “A good heart. Your Inquisitor just has a good heart to her. It’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Not if it kills her in the end,” Varric mutters.

Hawke squints at Varric and says, “And that took a decidedly more morose tone than I was expecting.”

Varric taps on Bianca for emphasis as he says, “You know everyone else would say exactly the same thing.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“Fenris? Aveline? Isabela?”

“...Fine. You have a point.”

Lavellan leans forward to inquire, “Is it not good to help other people?”

Cassandra hurries to answer, “Not if it hurts you to do it.” She’s seen the way Lavellan stretches herself to meet each and every request. Well, not every single one. Lavellan burned several letters from nobles to ashes and soot after she found out that they just wanted to use her to extend the range of their influence. But everyone else? Lavellan does her best. Bear hides for the refugees, honoring the grave of a farmer’s wife, finding a wedding ring, and everything else that the Inquisition demands from her.

“I do not think that is necessary to help,” Lavellan grumbles. “I have been doing perfectly fine so far.”

Dorian scoffs, “You’re out there, gallivanting around and saving the world, and you’re nearly getting killed for it too. Being dead isn’t a good thing, you know.”

“You are correct,” Lavellan says with an owlish blink. “If I was dead, then I could no longer do anything to help.”

Varric groans and says, “Not the point we were trying to make, but just… Stay safe, birdie. We don’t want to lose you.”

Hawke’s easy grin sobers into a solemn gaze, and she sighs, “I will say this though, Inquisitor. If you give too much of yourself to something whether it be a cause or a city or, in your case, the entirety of Thedas, then you’ll be left with very little of yourself. I know. I saw it happen.”

“To yourself or to others?” Lavellan wonders, her eyes wide and flatly reflective in the dim light of the cave.

Hawke keep her gaze steady and still on Lavellan as she says, “Both.”

The group lapses into silence, and the only sounds that they hear now is the unceasing torrent of water outside. The hollow cave makes the sound echo and resound, and Cassandra shifts uncomfortably in her place. 

Hawke suddenly cracks her knuckles together — the sound echoing in the cave as well — and moves forward to grab the wet wood. “And on that note, I think we’ve all had a long day. Shall we call it a night?” she says. Cassandra can feel Hawke’s magic rising up and forcing fire to exude through every particle of the wood. Through sheer force of will, the wet wood instantly dries and catches aflame. Hawke tosses onto the pile of wet kindling and dries that with a snap of her fingers. “There’s a fire now, and I’m willing to take first watch. Everyone else, go take a nap. You all need it after that long trek in the mud.”

“Wh- How?” Dorian sputters. “We’ve been trying to set that wood on fire for the last hour or so!”

Hawke only winks and says, “I’m a Fereldan apostate. You learn to work with wet wood. Lavellan should’ve known how to work with wet wood too. Merrill said that there was a special Dalish trick that was more, uhhhhh. What did she say, Varric?”

“She said that it was ‘prettier’ and ‘nicer’ and ‘not as flashy’ as your method, Hawke,” Varric provides.

Hawke flaps her hand at the fire and says, “Yeah, yeah, it’s a lot more subtle than just forcing the wood to catch on fire.”

“I’ve been trying to force the fire on too!” Dorian exclaims, outrage peaking the pitch of his voice. 

Hawke shrugs and snickers, “Guess you weren’t doing it right then. Good night, Dorian.”

Dorian groans, “Honestly… And  _ you _ , don’t give me that doe-eyed look, Lavellan. Why didn’t you just do that from the beginning.”

Lavellan bats her eyes at Dorian and says in her most charming tone, “It was entertaining to watch you.”

Dorian throws up his hands and says dryly, “I am thoroughly unappreciative of any of you at this current moment.  _ Good night.” _

He paces towards his bag and pulls out his bedroll, but Varric calls out after him, “Does this mean you’re giving up the title of Lavellan’s best friend?”

Dorian pauses to toss back, “We may re-negotiate those terms in the morning.”

Lavellan pouts, “Oh, Dorian, do not be upset. It was very, very funny to see you doing it.” She forms a soft magelight in her hands and lobs it at Dorian so that it hovers near him. She adds two more magelights until they halo him with gentle light. 

Dorian twists around to stick his tongue out at Lavellan and harrumphs, “Bah. You and your little puppy face look won’t do anything.”

Lavellan tosses another magelight at him as she murmurs, “Also, I am just going to say that your theory of magical induction also applies in this case. You are using it incorrectly.”

Dorian unfurls his bedroll with a sharp snap and hisses, “Oh, don’t bring up that old debate again. I am sick and tired of arguing about it with Solas and Vivienne, and now you too? Betrayal. Absolute betrayal. I am horrified and sickened. And also, it’s not my theory. It’s Ser Castenwald’s, and that theory is backed up with research from the Tevinter Circle!”

“I love you too, Dorian.”

“I know.”

Dorian’s tone is weary, and he says it with a sigh, but Cassandra knows better. He truly cares about Lavellan, and she doubts he’ll give up his self-declared title as Lavellan’s best friend so easily. Lavellan has him hook, line, and sinker when it comes to friendship, and those two are always thick as thieves in the midst of battle. Cassandra always senses their magic intertwining to summon a storm of lightning or a maze of glyphs on the battlefield. She remembers how Lavellan was thoroughly incandescent with rage when Mother Giselle first asked her to trick Dorian. Lavellan wouldn’t stop complaining about “the nerve of that Chantry Mother” to Cassandra for days on end. Either way, Lavellan uncurls her legs and pads over to give Dorian a soft tap on his head. She bends down beside him to help him straighten his bedroll out, and he ruffles her hair as she goes. 

When Cassandra pulls out her bedroll, she groans when she finds it to be drenched in water. Just her luck. The wretched Crestwood rain made its way into her rucksack too. She digs through her belongings and grimaces when she finds that all of her rations and other belongings are wet too. Thankfully, she didn’t bother bringing her journal and notes relating to her Seeker work to Crestwood. With a frown, she sets everything by the fire to dry.

“Cassandra?” Lavellan’s soft voice says behind her.

Cassandra doesn’t turn around but answers, “What is it?”

“Your bedroll is wet,” she says.

“An obvious fact,” Cassandra returns. She tries to wring out more water from the sodden fabric, but she’s already done as much as she could.

“You could share my bedroll if you wanted.”

Cassandra blinks before she slowly turns around to look at Lavellan. Her Lavellan’s face is determined and set in its expression. Behind Lavellan, Dorian, Hawke, and Varric all make wide-eyed faces and point aggressively to Lavellan while nodding furiously. Cassandra heaves out a heavy sigh and says, “If you are amenable to it, then I don’t see why not.”

Dorian, Hawke, and Varric all pump their fists in the air with triumph. Lavellan doesn’t notice them as she picks her way over to Cassandra. She takes care to avoid stepping on Cassandra’s belongings and extends a hand out to her. Cassandra considers it for a moment before she steels her nerves and takes her hand. Lavellan pulls her closer to her pack and continues to hold Cassandra’s hand as she unfurls her bedroll with her spare hand.

“You don’t have to keep holding my hand,” Cassandra points out. “I can help you set up if you would like.”

Lavellan glances at her and replies casually, “I enjoy holding your hand. I do not think we have held hands in a long time, so I wanted to hold it for a little while longer.”

Cassandra swears that the rest of the party are behind them, pumping their fists with victory again. She has to admit that she feels a little bit like that too.

Lavellan finally lets go of her hand to slip under the covers, and Cassandra follows. Admittedly, there’s not much space there, so she curls closer to Lavellan. They freeze in their places, and Cassandra wonders if she should move away from Lavellan. However, Lavellan only smiles and tries to rearrange the blanket so that they fit more comfortably.

Silence falls over them before Lavellan suddenly murmurs, “You silence them.”

“What?” Cassandra blearily says. She almost fell asleep, but the sound of Lavellan’s voice rouses her back to awareness.

Lavellan turns her large eyes towards her, and they look like inky pools of shadows in the infinite night until the firelight strikes them just right. Then, they turn into mirrors of iris-less light. “You take their magic away,” she clarifies. “Like templars but without the lyrium. I have always wanted to ask you about it, but I did not want to seem rude.”

“But you’re asking now,” Cassandra points out. Her tone is light though, almost teasing, and she reaches out to tap Lavellan on her nose.

Lavellan giggles softly and admits, “Well, yes, because you and I are closer now.” She pauses, and the moment of silence grows long. At this close distance, Cassandra can clearly see the hesitation flickering in Lavellan’s eyes. “Friends,” the elf finally says. “We are better friends now.” The look in her eyes eases up as she snorts, “Imagine if I asked when the Breach was still open and Chancellor Roderick still wanted my head cut off.”

“I defended you, didn’t I?” Cassandra tosses back.

“You did, and I will always be grateful to you for that,” Lavellan says softly. She reaches out to cup Cassandra’s face, and Cassandra can feel the tell-tale blush heating her cheeks and ears. Wonderful.

“No need to be grateful,” Cassandra blusters instead. “I did what I believed was best.”

Lavellan sighs, “Your faith is truly something, Cassandra. It amazes me sometimes.”

“Funny you should say that because faith is what led me to my abilities,” Cassandra says. She lifts her hand up in the air, out from underneath the covers, and mimics the motion she makes when she makes a spell purge. “It’s from my Seeker abilities, and I gained them after my vigil of faith.”

“You were the youngest one to go through that, yes?” Lavellan recalls.

Cassandra tightens her fist before slowly bringing her hand back down. “Yes,” she says. “I was fifteen and underwent it in some remote castle in the Blasted Hills of Orlais. I placed my trust in the Maker and believed I would make it through.” She gestures over to the general direction of Orlais and says, “We train for years and after our vigil, we gain several abilities that aid us in our duties. We cannot be possessed or controlled, and depending on the individual, we can gain more.”

Lavellan reaches out to hold Cassandra’s hand and asks, “And yours is to sense magic?”

“To a degree,” Cassandra answers. “I can manipulate lyrium in a person’s blood, and I can feel the sensation of their magic.”

Lavellan excitedly rolls over so that she’s facing Cassandra with her entire body, and she eagerly says, “Oh, oh, describe our friends then! Dorian and Vivienne and Solas! What does their magic feel like?”

Cassandra pauses and glances over at the others. Dorian is already snoring in his bedroll, Varric is covered by his blanket, and Hawke is the farthest away from them as she stares out into the drizzling rain. On first watch, Cassandra supposes. In a hushed voice, she answers, “Vivienne’s magic is cold, like ice, and brutally efficient and precise. Dorian tends towards fire and lightning, flamboyant things like that, but he follows set patterns and rituals in his magic. Solas’s magic is malleable, more spirit-like than the rest, and his mana flows like water. It melds almost imperceptibly with the Fade, and he could probably cast a few spells that would go ignored by a templar.”

“And mine?” 

Cassandra falls silent. She reaches her senses out for a probing touch, and Lavellan answers with the quiet thrum of her mana. “Yours…” Cassandra finally says. “Yours is like freedom. It’s wild and feels like open fields and open skies. There’s wind in your magic and a certain music.”

Lavellan stretches her free hand out and twitches her fingers to summon a thread of magic that flickers in the air. Then, it takes flight and circles around the cave before coming back to Lavellan and fading out. “Freedom,” she muses. “I like that.  _ Revas _ is freedom in elvhen. Yes, I like that.” She looks over at Cassandra and asks, “Is anyone else in your family a Seeker?”

Cassandra snorts, “My family is so large to the point where I think there might be one hiding somewhere in the genealogy. But from what I can remember, I am the only one who left behind my noble titles to train with the Order. Not that anyone cares or remembers that I pledged myself to the Order. Leliana and Josephine still use my name to lever influence over certain parts of Nevarra.”

“Do you think anyone would?” Lavellan still asks. “Join the Seekers, I mean.”

Cassandra ponders the thought over before answering, “No, I do not think so. And… The only one I could imagine doing it is dead.”

“Oh,” Lavellan says with wide eyes. “I do not want to be rude, but was it your brother?”

“Yes, my brother Anthony,” Cassandra says. She lets out a long exhale of breath. The sudden, heart-wrenching pang of grief always startles her when it rises up at the sound of her brother’s name.

Lavellan looks at Cassandra, and Cassandra knows the momentary grief did not go unnoticed. “We do not have to talk about it if you do not want to,” she says in a low, solemn voice.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Cassandra says. She shuts her eyes as she trawls through her memories, and with a soft smile, she reminisces, “Anthony was older than I, a dragon hunter who showed what a Pentaghast could truly be. I idolized him. I wanted to hunt dragons as he did, even though our uncle forbade it. Anthony promised to train me in secret. We would hunt together one day, brother and sister vanquishing the beasts of old.” The smile falls off her face as she flatly says, “And then he died on me.”

_ “Ir abelas, arasha,” _ Lavellan whispers. “I did not mean for you to—“

“It is fine, but at that point, it was the end of everything I knew,” Cassandra says, her voice tired and almost blank of all emotion. 

“How did he…” Lavellan trails off before she finishes her sentence, but Cassandra knows what she was going to say.

“How did he die?” Cassandra echoes. She’s replayed this memory in her head so many times that she could recite it, word for word, now. “A group of apostates wanted dragon blood, and wanted Anthony to get it for them. He refused, and they killed him for it. In front of me. I begged the Chantry to let me become a templar. Instead, they sent me to the Seekers. It took many years to let go of my drive for vengeance.” A bitter taste rises up from Cassandra’s throat, and she blinks hard. Again, she’s always startled at the way grief and anger return so quickly to her despite the number of years that have passed since then. 

Lavellan looks up, and the iron in her eyes startles Cassandra. However, she says lowly, “I understand what that feels like.” 

Cassandra can’t help but wonder who she felt so angry for in her past. A brother? No, she still had her twin, and judging from their conversations, Cassandra thinks that M is her only sibling. Someone else, a friend, perhaps? Either way, Cassandra sighs heavily and says, “At times I could not breathe; the rage nearly choked me.”

“I know,” Lavellan says. The spark in her eyes burns now as she says, “It consumes you until you feel like you are being burned alive. The grief and the anger stays with you, haunts you in your dreams, but the bodies, the people, they never come back. And if you do act on that anger, the blood on your hands never seems to wash away.” She looks haunted in that moment, and Cassandra leans in closer to her, trying to ward away whatever plagues her thought. Lavellan nestles in closer too, emulating the same movement.

Cassandra looks up to the cave ceiling and says, “I never killed those apostates, but I wanted to. But now… I think I’ve reconciled with his death. I still wonder what would have happened if Anthony was still alive. Perhaps we would hunt dragons together. Or perhaps, I would have been married off to some fool with deep coffers. A mother of three, maybe. But I cannot say.” She sighs and reaches out to hold Lavellan’s hand again. “I take solace in believing the Maker has a plan, but He is not always kind.”

“If the Maker existed,” Lavellan hesitantly says. “Then, He must be kind because He let me meet you.”

The sentiment startles Cassandra. Lavellan has always been the type of person to ignore the Maker and Andraste, and at worst, shun the Chantry. She’s abandoned the title of Herald with every chance she got save for the introduction at Halamshiral. She even fought with Mother Giselle over the role of the Maker in her life and over the purpose of Skyhold’s courtyard. Lavellan took out every statue of Andraste with her bare hands and planted gardens instead. To have someone like Lavellan say that is shocking. Possibly even earth-shattering.

Cassandra shuts her eyes and thanks the Maker for this one kindness. “Thank you,” she says thickly. “That means more to me than you could ever imagine, Lavellan.”

Lavellan bows her head and says, “I thank the Creators every day for letting me meet you. I should allow the Maker and Andraste the same thanks as well.”

They stay together, hands held tight and curled into each other, for the entire night. They fall asleep in the same position, and no one wakes any of them for the night watch shift. When Cassandra wakes up in the morning, she blearily realizes this fact and wonders why no one bothered to give them their proper night shift. She’s loathe to leave Lavellan’s side, but she has to pack up her own bag now.

The rain is gone, and in its place, cloudy grey skies dominate the horizon. Cassandra only thanks the Maker that it’s not the miserable rain. The mud is something that she can deal with if the rain isn’t there to exacerbate it. The entire party tromps and trudges through the rolling hills and the miring mud until finally, they reach a set of tunnels and caverns barred off by fencing and wood. Hawke doesn’t even hesitate when she reaches the locked door and pulls back her fist to punch with a fireball.

The door burns down in a flurry of soot and ash, and Hawke takes care of the oncoming bandits just as quickly. “Thugs,” she mutters. “You’d think they’d learn to pick their fights by now, but no, they always have to get in your way. Alright, kids, let’s go, let’s go, we have a Warden to meet.” Agitation is clear and evident from the way Hawke paces impatiently or the way her shoulders tense. Varric and Lavellan exchange a worried look before they proceed.

Finally, they spot two figures dressed in Warden blue in the distance, and they pick their way over the fallen rocks and stalagmites to them. However, Hawke freezes and with absolute horror, she breathes out,  _ “Carver.” _

The taller figure turns around and says, “Hello, sister. Nice to see you haven’t died yet.”

Cassandra gets closer to see the Wardens. The taller one looks like Hawke: the same square jaw, a tall nose, dark hair, blue eyes. However, his nose looks like it’s broken at least once in his lifetime. There’s also a thin scar across the edge of his cheek. There’s no one else that person could be other than Carver Hawke, the Champion’s younger brother. The shorter Warden looks older with experience and a heavy burden lining their way across his face. He has a heavy mustache as well, but his dark circles rival the color of his hair.

Hawke takes a step forward and snaps, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Carver only shrugs, “But I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Hawke shakes her head and says firmly, “Yes, I can, and that’s sending you back where you’re supposed to be.”

Carver folds his arms and raises a brow as he says, “Not gonna happen, Marian.”

“Stop blathering and go back to safety,” Hawke returns, sharp and brusque. Her voice falters as she says, “Isabela  _ promised _ .”

“But I didn’t,” Carver points out. “and there’s the loophole. What? Don’t look at me like that. You always loved your loopholes.” 

Hawke buries her face in her hands and groans, “When did you get so good at it then? You were always terrible at lying your way out of things.”

Carver holds up one finger as he says, “First, this isn’t lying. I am being completely serious when I say that I’m not going to go back.” He holds up a second finger when he says, “Second, I wasn’t  _ bad _ at it.”

“You were.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were,” Hawke retorts. She makes motions with her hands to accompany her story as she says, “Do you remember that time Father once asked you if you were the one to break the fence to the pasture and then you said that you didn’t and that it was my fault and you were so terribly bad at lying?”

Carver rolls his eyes and says, “To be fair, you broke half of it.”

That doesn’t stop Hawke as she barrels on, “And then you broke the other half and then all the cows and sheep and our singular goat named Molly got loose and caused havoc in Lothering.  _ Yes _ , I have a good memory, so hush up and start explaining yourself.” She shifts her gaze over to the second Warden and glares at him as she says, “Or Stroud? Care to answer why my brother is here and not safely ensconced in some hidden corner of Thedas where that idiot magister of a monster can’t touch him?”

“We are called to our duty,” Warden Stroud answers. He stands in a military stance, back straight and his gaze at attention. 

Hawke gives him a once-over and in a withering voice, replies, “Not a good one from what I’ve heard about the Calling.”

“Touché, sister, touché,” Carver mutters. His eyes widen as he realizes what he just said, and he hurries to say, “Oh, wait, never mind, I’m not supposed to agree with you.”

“What is the Calling?” Lavellan asks now. She steps forward until she’s fully in the firelight that flickers from one of the torches mounted on the wall near Stroud.

“The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight will soon claim him. Starts with dreams,” the Warden explains. “Then, whispers in his head. The Warden says his farewells and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat.”

Carver side-eyes Stroud and mumbles, “Should you really be telling the Inquisitor about this? We’re bound by an oath of secrecy.”

“You’re terrible at whispering, Carver,” Hawke points out.

Stroud, however, shakes his head and says sadly, “Carver, we must for the sake of our Order. It is impossible to understand our situation unless one knows about the Calling.”

“Fine, fine,” Carver says as he waves of Stroud. “Just wanted to be safe and double check and all.”

“Stop grumbling, Carver, or I’ll give you something to grumble about,” Hawke snaps. She rounds on him and places her hands on her hips as she veritably yells, “And Carver, why didn’t you tell me all of this?”

“I just said!” Carver sputters. “It’s an oath of secrecy you swear when you join the Wardens! What part about ‘oath of secrecy’ do you not understand?”

“I am sorry, Warden Carver,” Lavellan cuts in. She steps between Carver and Hawke who have no stepped toward each other so close to the point where they could punch each other easily. Lavellan turns her gaze over to Stroud and says, “Warden Stroud. To feel as if you constantly had one foot in the grave… It must be painful.”

“More like a pain in the ass,” Carver grumbles.

_ “Carver.” _

“What?” Carver protests. “It’s the truth. It’s the reason why I asked you to help me find some safer place to be other than Orlais.”

“Maker, I never thought…” Hawke falls silent and clenches her hands into fists. She looks at Stroud and Carver, gaze constantly flickering between the two. “This wasn’t what you told me,” she finally says.

“Like I said, secrecy,” Carver says. He examines Hawke’s face before relenting, “You would still worry the same amount no matter which story I told you. And to clarify, you would worry way too much for both of us.”

Hawke’s shoulders slump and ever so softly, she says, “I’m your big sister. It’s what I do. I can’t lose you too, Carver.”

That makes Carver freeze, and grief crosses his expression like an old shadow. “I know, I know,” he murmurs. However, the old grief abruptly slides off his expression as he says, “But hey, that reminds me, there’s this mage Warden in Ferelden by the name of Amell. Turns out she’s our cousin from our mother’s side.”

“From  _ Gamlen?!” _

“No, Maker,  _ no _ ,” Carver answers, absolutely aghast at the mere thought. “From some other cousin. Aunt Revka’s daughter. You know, that cousin Mother told us about once.”

Cassandra remembers Varric’s description of Gamlen from the novel. A good-for-nothing gambler, if she recalls correctly. She can’t imagine any child of his being a great Warden of the Order. Stroud seems to sense the opposite direction the conversation is going and immediately says, “But regardless, the devastation of our Order… It is our greatest fear. What will we do when there is another Blight but no Wardens?”

“And that makes you desperate,” Lavellan says thoughtfully. “Hopeless, perhaps. Even animals become wilder when they are cornered by a hunter’s arrow. I understand. As a hunter, that is what Corypheus would want the most.”

“He speaks with the voice of the Blight,” Stroud says. “And that allows him to affect the minds of Wardens.”

Lavellan turns to face him and asks, “Why?”

Stroud ignores the pointed look Carver shoots at him as he says, “We are tied to the Blight itself, Inquisitor.”

“So, the Wardens think they’re dying and have stopped thinking clearly?” Cassandra interrupts. “That won’t go so well.” She knows how an Order crumbles. It breaks down from the inside. Something within the foundation rots. And then, it all comes crashing down. She knows because it happened to her own.

“But Seeker, you out of all people should know what it is like to have your order plunged in such chaos,” Stroud tries.

Cassandra lifts her chin up and harshly says, “That does not excuse foolishness.” 

“Does it not?” Stroud murmurs. He shakes his head and paces over to a nearby table where he has a map laid out with small pins in it. “But arguments about orders aside, this is a grave situation,” he continues. “Warden-Commander Clarel of Orlais spoke of some blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights from even happening. When I protested, my fellow brothers and sisters among the Wardens turned on me. I had to leave, but they continue with their plans. They are gathering in the Western Approach, Inquisitor. There is a Tevinter ritual tower that we should meet at.”

“Well, I’ll see you there, Marian,” Carver says lightly. He leans over the map itself and taps where the location of the tower is. 

Hawke crosses her arms and snaps, “Oh, shut up, Carver. I cannot believe you never even told me about this. You barely even send letters anymore, so imagine my shock when I received that message for help.”

For once, Carver looks up and looks guilty. “I’m sorry,” he ventures. He fiddles with the edge of his armor, rubbing the pad of his thumb over and over by the seam where metal meets a new sheet of silverite above it.

He’s quickly answered when his sister grumbles, “You should be.” She avoids his gaze and stares resolutely into a shadowy corner.

Carver pauses and looks at his sister. A slow grin spreads across his face as he answers in the same tone, “Eat ass, sister.”

That makes a wide, shit-eating grin cross over Hawke’s face too, and with a nearly vicious glint in her eyes, she tosses back, “Thank you, Carver, and I do. He loves it.”

_ “Maker _ , I did  _ not _ need to know that about you and Fenris,” Carver exclaims, loud and horrified. The smile slips off his face in favor of a wide O of shock. “You’re disgusting, Marian. Absolutely disgusting. I’m appalled.”

“Oh, joy of joys,” Hawke dryly answers. “You’ve increased your vocabulary, brother.”

“Do you two hate each other?” Lavellan ventures.

Hawke glances over to Lavellan and laughs, “Oh, no, no, Inquisitor, we just love to rag on each other.” She reaches over to ruffle Carver’s hair and says, “But I’ll see you there, Carver. And for what it’s worth, I think you are brave, braver than I ever could be, to live as a Warden with this… With this Calling hanging over your head.”

“Oh,” Carver says. He looks like he didn’t expect it, and he doesn’t push Hawke away. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” Hawke says with a rap of her knuckles against his Warden armor. “And find Cousin Amell some time. What’s her name?”

“Solona,” Carver says. “Solona Amell. She was recruited from the Mage Tower after the Fifth Blight.”

“A bit too late to join, isn’t it?” Hawke muses. “But I suppose you always need more Wardens based on what Stroud just said. Interesting. Is she… Is she still alive?”

Carver steps over to the map and gestures to the general area of Nevarra. “Yeah, the last I heard, she wasn’t in Orlais, so she should have been out of range,” he answers. “I stopped hearing the Calling as strongly when I was traveling away with Isabela. She should be stationed somewhere in the Anders or Nevarra.”

Hawke taps her chin with her index finger as she contemplates it. “Then after this, after we sort all of this out, let’s have a little family reunion,” she finally says.

“Alright. Stay safe, Marian.”

“You too.”

Hawke doesn’t stay long in the cavern, and instead, leaves with Lavellan. Lavellan stops her and asks, “Are you sure?” Hawke only nods before she trudges onward. Cassandra watches her leave, and Lavellan comes to stand beside her. “I do not know why she does not want to stay longer with her brother,” she murmurs. “If my brother was a Warden, I would have paid the world and more to spend more time with him before… Before the Calling took him away.”

Cassandra hesitates as she watches Hawke leave. Varric saves her from having to answer when he clears his throat and says, “She probably doesn’t want to stay too long because then, she won’t want to leave. Hawke’s always been a quick one, Birdie. Nothing personal, nothing  terrible about it. She makes decisions and acts on them right away so that she removes the element of doubt from it.” Varric shrugs and continues, “Carver’s the same way too.”

“You know, I can hear you,” Carver grouses. He comes forward and watches his sister leave with a bittersweet emotion twisting his lips. “But yeah, I don’t stay long or write too many letters. Leaves too much of a connection, too much of a bond, and that makes it hard to do my work. Same with her. She used to have an entire city on her shoulders. Now, it seems like she has the world. You might be the one with the official title that gives you responsibility over Thedas, but I know my sister. She probably feels so much guilt over the mage-templar conflict that she treats it like it’s her problem to solve. Take care of her, Inquisitor. Make sure she doesn’t kill herself by giving too much of herself to the world like she did with Kirkwall.” He cracks a weak smile and claps Lavellan on the back. “Do it for me, at least. Because I can’t be there to do it for her.”

“I will,” Lavellan softly says. She reaches up to tentatively pat Carver’s back — the same imitation of his own gesture — before she shoulders her staff and gets ready to leave. Cassandra glances back at Carver. He has an infinitely melancholy expression etched on his face, and he exhales. Bends over to tie his bootlaces. Gets up. Moves back to the map. All of them are robotic motions that don’t hide the sadness lying underneath him. Dorian and Varric follow after Lavellan soon after, and Cassandra has to turn too.

Their trip back to Skyhold is not as lively as their initial trip down to Crestwood. Everyone withdraws into themselves, and Varric spends more of his nights furiously writing in his journal. His fingers are now constantly ink-stained and no amount of magic that Lavellan casts gets the stains out. He only shrugs and continues to write.

Cassandra, Dorian, and Varric all stand with Lavellan as they report back at the war table. Hawke stands there as well, tapping her fingers against the edge of the polished wood. However, when Lavellan heads out to the Tevinter ritual tower, she brings Blackwall instead of Cassandra. It’s a sensible reason: bring the Warden to a Warden-related business.

Everything seems like a rush after that. Lavellan brings back stories of a magister binding demons to Wardens using false hopes and dreams. She bristles with righteous fury when she describes the scene. The Anchor sputters and sparks with every word she says, as if to emphasize her words. Cullen consumes himself with plans and military operation ideas for Adamant Fortress while Leliana strengthens her spy network in Orlais.

Lavellan comes to her that very same night. A soft rhythm of taps on Cassandra’s door lets her know immediately that it’s Lavellan, and she opens the door willingly. Against her better will and judgement, she lets Lavellan stay the night. They nestle underneath the blankets together. Nothing crass, nothing intimate. Lavellan only curls into Cassandra’s open arms and sobs. “He used them, he used their hopes and dreams to chain them down,  _ lethallan,” _ she chokes out.  “They killed their friends, believing that it was for a greater purpose. In peace, vigilance, in war, victory, in death, sacrifice. That is what they believed, but it was so that he could use them as tools.” She stops speaking and clutches onto Cassandra tighter. She does not say anything more about what happened at the Western Approach, but Cassandra already knows. The reports and Lavellan’s own account at the war table are enough to paint the scene for her, and Cassandra shakes too, but with fury rather than tears. 

The morning after, Cassandra wakes up without Lavellan beside her. The space feels strangely absent, even though Cassandra’s been sleeping alone for years. It feels so lonely that Cassandra hugs her own pillow despite feeling like a fool for doing so. She reaches out one hand to gently brush against the space where Lavellan was. Finally, she gets up and tosses the pillow back where it was. 

Cullen asks her and Blackwall to go over the various choke points he’s identified in the Warden fortress. Blackwall confesses that he knows little about the fortress and cites the fact that it’s been abandoned for most of recent history. Well, it makes sense. Even Cassandra doesn’t remember the specific layout of every single Seeker base in Thedas. Same goes for Cullen but with mage Circles. 

“It’ll take too many bodies,” Cullen says. Worry and concern expresses them in every line and groove on the Commander’s face, and he looks up at Cassandra. “We might lose too many.”

“But if we don’t, we’ll lose even more,” Cassandra counters. “Corypheus cannot be allowed to have his demon army, and think of all the Wardens at Adamant.”

“And every minute that passes, even more Wardens might become bonded to a demon and enslaved to Corypheus,” Blackwall insists. “You weren’t there at the Western Approach. I saw the way the demons consumed the Wardens.”

Cullen turns his attention back on the piles of paper and pulls out one sketch of a battering ram. “This one against one of the gates… This might work,” he says with a sense of finality. “Or combined with the magic from some of the battle-trained mages. We could breach through a gate. That fortress is old, and I don’t think it’s been maintained as frequently as some of the other fortresses in Thedas are. We could get through that way.”

“Well,” Cassandra says wryly. “If Leliana can sneak into one of the most fortified forts in Ferelden with nothing more than a mabari and a hedge mage, then we can break into Adamant with an entire army.”

Preparations for the coming battle whips the entirety of Skyhold into an energetic frenzy. All the recruits train harder than usual and with real armor and weapons. The quartermaster posts requisition after requisition, and the mages practice their healing and offensive spells. Cassandra finds herself being shuttled around from place to place, training recruits and offering additional military advising to Cullen and helping carry heavy bags of supplies.

But finally, the day comes. Before they leave to Adamant, Lavellan pulls Cassandra aside. With a tight grip, she holds both of Cassandra’s hands and leans in closer on her tip-toes. Cassandra freezes and finds nowhere else to look other than Lavellan’s luminous eyes. It’s strangely reminiscent of their time at Halamshiral, and Cassandra holds her breath. “I…” Lavellan says. She shuts her eyes and takes in a deep breath before she says quietly, “My name is Ellana.”

“What?” Cassandra says as she tries to fit Lavellan’s words into something comprehensible. Lavellan’s name is Lavellan, is it not? 

Lavellan exhales before saying, “I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan. Names are precious in my clan, and they are not to be given lightly. But I give mine to you freely. I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan.”

“Ellana,” Cassandra tries out. The name rolls off her tongue in a smooth series of syllables, and she does not miss the way Ellana’s eyes shine when she says her name. She grips Ellana’s hands tighter and pulls her into a close embrace. By this point, hugs are easy gestures with each other, and she doesn’t feel as self-conscious as she once did. “Ellana,” she repeats. The name fills her with a deep and unspeakable joy, and she says over and over again, “Ellana, Ellana, Ellana.”

Ellana laughs, soft and tinkling and delighted, and wraps her own arms tighter around Cassandra. Cassandra even lifts her up in the air and swings her around in a circle before depositing her safely back on the ground. Then, she pauses and gasps,  _ “No, _ that clever  _ asshole _ of an elf!” 

Ellana tilts her head with confusion, but Cassandra hisses out, “Your brother called you  _ Ell.  _ L for Lavellan, he said, but he meant your  _ real  _ name!”

“Lavellan is as real as my first name,” Ellana soothes. “But yes, I will admit that M was clever in giving the nickname. My clanmates used to call me Ell for short when I was younger.”

Cassandra huffs out a sigh before she brushes her thumb across Lavellan’s cheek, following the same line of her vallaslin. “Ellana,” she muses. “The name seems to fit you perfectly.”

_ “Ma serannas,” _ Ellana says with a blush. She averts her gaze down and shyly admits, “I… My name… You… You were the first one I told. About my name.”

Now, it is Cassandra’s turn to blush when she stutters, “The first?”

“Yes,” Ellana says, looking back up at her again. “We are going to Adamant, and we may fight a losing battle. I do not want to go with any regrets, and I know I would regret it terribly if… If the unspeakable happened. We treat names like treasures, but that does not mean I should keep it to myself.” A small smile cracks its way across her face as she says, “I am not a dragon watching over its hoard. I give my name to you freely. It is yours to use.”

“I.. This is an honor, Lavellan, Ellana, truly,” Cassandra says honestly. “I’ll use it carefully.”

Ellana pats Cassandra’s shoulder and says, “Feel free to use it whenever you would like. As I said, it is yours.”

As they walk towards Skyhold’s gates, Cassandra feels like she’s been given a treasure instead of a gift.  _ Ellana. _ She quietly places the name in its own separate space in her mind. For special occasions, she promises herself. When she truly wants to express a sentiment to her. Cassandra skirts around the four-lettered word in her mind and calls it the Sentiment.

They meet the others at the gate, and suddenly, a thought creeps into Cassandra’s head. If Ellana gave her name to her now, then it must mean she was truly worried about Adamant. It sets Cassandra on edge and it also sharpens her resolve. She will be Ellana’s shield in the battle. She will not let any harm touch her. 

Before she leaves, Blackwall stops her and presses a small, wooden griffin in her head. “Don’t let them fall,” Blackwall asks. His voice cracks on the last word, but he continues, “They… They made mistakes, but they did it because they believed they were doing good. Give them a second chance, Seeker, and let Lavellan give them a second chance. She won’t let me go. She thinks I’ll feel the Calling, but please, Seeker, help my Order. You must know what it’s like. Help the Wardens.”

Cassandra looks down at the carved griffin in her hand and can’t bear to tell him her true thoughts on the situation. That she thinks the Wardens were fools. That the Order should have stood tall. That they should have resisted the corruption before they broke to blood magic. But her eyes meet Blackwall’s, desperate and grieving, and her hand closes over the griffin. She does not say a word, but she reaches out with her other hand to grip Blackwall’s shoulder. A soldier’s understanding, a soldier’s accord. Because if they are not Seeker and Warden without their Orders, then they are soldiers through and through. She cannot guarantee anything, but she pockets the griffin as she leaves Skyhold.

Her resolve to protect Lavellan gets sorely tested when they finally reach Adamant. The situation is so much worse than Lavellan’s words made it seem. The demons consume the Wardens’ bodies in a different way that abominations feel. It’s hard to describe, but Cassandra can tell the minute difference. She spent her life as a Seeker hunting down abominations. These are different. Whether it be the Wardens’ exposure to darkspawn and the Blight or the willingness of their twisted ritual, it makes their magic different and twisted than the usual. 

Cassandra’s arm aches from the weight of the shield, and she hisses when she takes the brunt of a hit meant for Lavellan.  _ Ellana, _ she corrects in her head. It’s strange to wrap her head around the name, but it is a precious gift that she holds close to her heart. She raises her shield a little higher and Ellana summons a bolt of lightning that sizzles over Cassandra’s head. The demon falls and Cassandra brings her sword down on its head with as much force she can muster. It takes too much time and too many bodies, but they finally reach Warden-Commander Clarel.

Ellana is the one to step forward and cry out with a loud and ringing voice. “You are not weak, you are Wardens,” she says. “And you are brave and bold enough to protect Thedas. But you  _ must _ open your eyes to see what is really happening. Are you going to let a man allied with a darkspawn magister affect your judgement? Are you going to let a man make you break Thedas apart? He takes the blood of your brothers and sisters and uses it to break your bones and your mind. He takes your lives and makes an army for a darkspawn!” She raises her left hand and the Anchor glimmers in the shadows. “I have stood against Corypheus once and beaten him at his game. We can do it again if we stand together! Now, which side will you take, Grey Wardens of Orlais? The Blight or Thedas?!”

Warden-Commander Clarel looks at her, and Ellana resolutely stands her ground. “You are a leader, Warden-Commander Clarel de Chanson. Do you not see what you are doing to your people?” she calls out. Her voice echoes against the stones, and the archdemon screams in response. The harsh sound grates against their ears, and some Wardens stumble away from Erimond and Clarel.

Clarel meets Ellana’s gaze and she says, “Inquisitor Lavellan, why do you stand here? Why do you fight us?”

“Because I love Thedas as much as you do,” Ellana steadily answers “Because I do not want the Blight to overtake us as much as you. Because I have seen the future and I have seen the taint the land holds. Do not let Erimond twist your thoughts on me, Warden-Commander. I am here because I stand for Thedas, not against it.”

Clarel hesitates, and Erimond grabs her shoulders. “Come now, Clarel,” he tries. “Don’t let some upstart Dalish knife-ear change your mind.”

“An elf ended the Blight, both in Starkhaven and in Ferelden,” Clarel grits out. Erimond takes a step back, but Clarel raises her hand and sends lightning after Erimond. “And an elf will save Thedas again. Careful with your words, Erimond. I stand with the Inquisitor!”

Clarel and Erimond duel, and Cassandra can feel their magic prickling at the ends of her nerves. They hurl magic like heavy stones, tearing through the Fade and summoning up waves of flame, entropy, and whatever else they can get their hands on. Demons and Wardens converge on them, enemies and allies both. Cassandra grits her teeth and hurries on, trying to stave off the demons from Ellana. The heat of dragonfire stings Cassandra’s eyes, and she almost falters. 

Erimond stumbles as well, and his blood splashes out onto the stones of the walkway. With an angry snarl, he calls out, “You will not break me, Clarel! Your death is near!” He swipes his staff through the air, and Corypheus’s dragon surges to the forefront. It lands heavy and hard on the walkway before it stomps forward and mauls Clarel to the ground. Her cry is cut off by Erimond’s maniacal laughter. The archdemon raises its head and sniffs the air before fixating on Ellana and her glowing hand. Cassandra catches its gaze, and she knows. She will not survive a blow from the archdemon should it come after Ellana.

Still, the Warden Commander stumbles and gets back on her feet. “In peace, vigilance!” Clarel calls out, voice strong despite the blood and soot staining her skin. “In war, victory!” Cassandra spares a moment to see Clarel standing there, broken arm, shoulders straight, and hands glowing with a magical force. Cassandra reaches out a sense to feel the magic, and she recoils from the sheer burning aura of it. 

“Ellana!” Cassandra cries out. “Fall back! Fall back before she casts the spell!” 

Clarel raises her gaze up to Cassandra, Solas, Dorian, before she settles on Ellana. With a bittersweet smile, she says, “In death, sacrifice. Good luck, Inquisitor.” She brings her hands down and her mana radiates out from her body to shatter the stones of the walkway. Erimond lets out a loud yell, and the dragon takes flight in a flurry of buffeting wind and flying shards of stone. 

_ “Ellana!”  _ Cassandra screams. She sheathes her sword and slings her shield on her back with a speed she musters up from the last dregs of her energy. She flings herself at Ellana, bracketing her with her arms and shielding her small body with her own. Ellana struggles in her grasp, and they free-fall, air rushing around them. Cassandra shuts her eyes, preparing herself for their impending deaths. But at least she will die protecting Ellana. 

Ellana’s eyes are wide and glassy with unshed tears, but she clings onto her staff with one hand and struggles to raise her left hand. “I will not let you die,  _ vhenan _ ,” she grits out. “We will not die here.” 

Cassandra watches wide-eyed as the Anchor explodes into a crackling, burning-hot mess of green light. Ellana screams from the pain, and her body begins to shake from the sheer effort of sustaining the Anchor’s destructive power. Ellana looks at Cassandra and chokes out, “I will see you on the other side.” She wriggles out of Cassandra’s gasp and plummets down faster than Cassandra can catch her.  In a corona of green fury, Ellana disappears and brilliant, flashing light blinds Cassandra’s vision. The only thing that Cassandra can feel now is the absence of  _ Ellana  _ in her arms, and she falls. A single tear slips down and she shuts her eyes for what she fears may be the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
>  **arasha** \- my happiness  
>  **vhenan** \- my heart
> 
> this is it, guys, we've officially hit the "vhenan" stage. 8 chapters in. i'm rly milking that slow burn huh  
> also, i rly rly wanted to fit in a scene with solas and lavellan somewhere and with cole because they're both so opposed to the wardens. unfortunately, it just made the chapter awkward and i ended up cutting it. it might end up somewhere in my fic, [drops of water in an endless sea.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283470) that's a separate fic i started for removed scenes from this fic as well as additional scenes that i think of from previous events. it includes a lot more perspectives than this fic does since i was initially debating on whether or not to make it solely from cassandra's perspective. i hope you enjoy that fic as much as you've enjoyed this one!! and thank you for all the kind comments <3 they truly make my day!!


	9. into the great abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: some dub-con in the form of a desire demon and the visions that it shows. nothing explicit; just a heads-up if you don't like that sort of stuff.

She falls.

Cassandra can feel the air rushing around her, and her body feels lighter than it ever was before. The familiar weight of her armor no longer presses against her chest, and the heft of her sword is like air in her hand. When Cassandra opens her eyes, she sees a sky laced over with green before her fall stops and the sky turns into solid ground.

Above her.

She turns her head, trying to get a better sense of where she is, and she sees Lavellan, not far from her. “Where are we?” Cassandra manages to say. “We were falling…”

Lavellan's ear flicks back before she bites her lip and reaches out with her Anchored hand to touch the ground above them. The world wrenches itself into a sense of normality with a sudden surge that makes her gut clench and her head spin. Cassandra shuts her eyes, trying to evade the nauseating feeling that rises up in her throat, but then, gravity and balance right themselves. Still, she only opens her eyes when she feels her feet touch the ground.

“This is the Fade,” Solas says. His expression is open and bare: eyes wide with wonder and strangely, concern. He raises his hand to point to a looming castle in the distance and says, “There. The Black City, almost close enough to touch.”

Cassandra glances over to her left, and her shock, Hawke stands nearly parallel to the ground with her feet resting solidly on a jagged stalagmite that juts out from the ground. She paces down the stalagmite and returns to a normal, upright position as she says, “I think the Maker owes us all an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker’s bosom. But if this really is the Maker’s bosom, I sure do feel bad for his bride. Poor Andraste, imagine having to nestle into a bosom like _this.”_ She emphasizes her words with a dismissive gesture to all the sharp angles and abnormal lumps of rock and green shards that dot over the landscape.

“That’s sacrilegious,” Cassandra automatically says.

Hawke snorts out a laugh before she says, “Well, Seeker, you don’t live through life without being a touch sacrilegious every now and then.”

Cassandra bristles a little at that. “I have _never_ been, not even once,” she says defensively.

“Ah, well, you must never have much fun though,” Hawke shrugs. “I had a friend once who was devout like you, but he wore a belt buckle of Andraste that was quite horrible, actually. It constantly looked like Andraste was on his crotch.”

The mental image of a belt like that is horrifying. But Dorian arches an eyebrow and places a hand on his hip. “Oh?” Dorian says. “Do tell me more. Was he handsome?”

“Not as handsome as you, Dorian,”  Hawke says with a quirk of her lips.

“My dear, you delight me.”

“Figured that was the response you wanted.”

Stroud clears his throat and straightens his shoulders as he states, “Lady Inquisitor, you… You pulled us through the Fade when Clarel broke the ramparts.”

Lavellan sighs and glances behind her shoulder before she faces Stroud and says, “I did.”

“Another rift?” Solas asks. His gaze narrows on the Anchor that still sputters with sparks on Lavellan's hand.

“Yes, I only hoped for our survival,” she admits as she rubs her right hand against the Anchor in her left palm. It shines even brighter when she touches it, but she picks at it asif she’s trying to stop it from flickering.

Dorian steps over to lay a hand on Lavellan's shoulder and tries, “Well, seeing as though we’re not completely squashed against the Maker-forsaken rocks of Adamant, I’d say you were successful.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Lavellan sighs. She stretches her Marked hand up to the sky now and tentatively clenches her hand. Nothing happens, and she lets her hand fall back down to her side as she says, “But I… I did not expect this. I thought we would fall out of another rift across Thedas, but not the actual Fade itself.”

Hawke clears her throat and says lightly, “You know, I was conscious during the Fade once. Never physically in it like this though. If I recall correctly, all of my friends betrayed me, and a spirit of Justice had to yank me out of it. Can you believe it? One friend abandoned me for a _boat_ out of all things. And then, she had the nerve to tell me that she ‘liked big boats.’ or something like that.” She waits for laughter or some sort of response, but when Lavellan's miserable expression stays put, she sighs, “Maker, I miss Isabela.”

Dorian catches on and adds, “The first time I entered the Fade, it looked like a lovely castle full of gold and silks. I met a marvelous desire demon, as I recall. We chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me. Shame, he really did look quite lovely, especially from behind.” Lavellan glances up at him without a smile, and Dorian’s eyes shutter. Instead, he taps his chin and gazes at the torn landscape while saying, “Perhaps the difference is that we are here physically. This is no longer a dream.”

“It is not. This is the raw Fade where we have full awareness of our surroundings,” Solas finally says. “It is… Strange to be here but in such a different way than I normally frequent. It is not the area I would have chosen to frequent, but to walk physically in the Fade… The Fade is shaped by emotions and intentions. As long as we remain focused, we should be able to go where we wish to go.”

Lavellan folds her arms and surveys their group before casting her gaze out to the larger area of the Fade. Cassandra can’t tell what kind of thoughts are churning away in Lavellan’s mind, but then again, she has no idea how the Fade must seem for her. Perhaps mages had a different perspective of the Fade? Or perhaps, the Anchor made it different for her. Either way, she can’t find even a hint of her heart’s usual smile.

“They say you fell out of the Fade at Haven. Was it like this?” Stroud asks.

Lavellan's gaze doesn’t focus on him, but she says softly, “I do not know. I do not remember, and no matter how I try, I cannot seem to recall it properly. I remember green. Green light. Fury. Screaming.” She pauses and holds up her Marked hand wryly. “Although I think I might have been the one screaming.”

“Well, it’s certainly green,” Hawke tries.

Lavellan nods without a word and starts walking off in the direction of a large, smoldering light in the sky that reminds Cassandra of the Breach. Dorian glances over at her to exchange a _look_ before he starts walking after Lavellan. Hawke and Stroud follow, but Cassandra waits for Solas. Solas slowly turns on his heel, taking in the sight of the Fade. Cassandra recalls his stories about his dreams. All of them were vivid and bright, showing memories of celebrations and rituals and sometimes war. None of them ever talked about green light and ragged boulders.

Solas looks pale, and he purses his lips into a thin light. When he turns his head just so, Cassandra thinks she can see the glint of an unshed tear in his eye. But in the end, he starts walking in Lavellan's direction. He passes by Cassandra, and now, she’s the one left to watch their retreating backs. She finally unsheathes her sword and carries her shield before she follows Lavellan.

Their path twists and turns, and the further they walk, the stranger the Fade becomes. The air becomes musty and cold before shifting into a heavy and humid sensation that presses down on their skin. Fog starts to rise up from the ground, and it thickens into white that leaves a green cast of light on the ground. It’s unlike any fog Cassandra’s ever seen, and she starts losing track of some of her companions as she walks. She sees their backs every now and then in a looser patch of fog, but finally, she comes to a place where she cannot see them any longer.

Cassandra stops in her tracks and holds her shield and sword with a white-knuckled grip. She can’t see anything except for white fog and green light that strikes through the lightest patches at times. Fear starts to trickle into her mind, slowly, slithering through her thoughts like a serpent. She tries to shake it off; Solas said that was dangerous.

Still, sweet, cool relief floods her thoughts when she hears Lavellan's voice call out, _“Aneth ara, lethallan_.”

The words are sweet and familiar to Cassandra’s ears, and she gratefully makes her way over to Lavellan. The fog thins only around Lavellan’s figure, and Cassandra feels so _relieved_ to finally find her. The elf reaches out to tug her closer and holds her hands tight. Before Cassandra can even react, Lavellan leans over to give her a chaste kiss on the lips. Her lips brush over Cassandra’s own before turning hot and heavy. Cassandra can’t help but let out a moan as Lavellan nips her lips. The familiar scent of embrium and ambrette fills Cassandra’s senses as she allows Lavellan to have her way with her. Her hands roam over Cassandra, and Cassandra responds with shameless eagerness. Lavellan brushes her fingers all over Cassandra’s curves, and Cassandra lifts her own hands to smooth them down Lavellan’s body.

She is cold and sharp in all the wrong places.

Cassandra stumbles away from this apparition with a wordless scream tearing her lips apart in a wide O. Lavellan has never been cold. The only time Cassandra ever remembers it being colder was during the aftermath of Haven’s destruction. Lavellan didn’t have enough mana to maintain her passive warmth then, but that shouldn’t be the case now. The lips of this Lavellan’s face tear open into a sharp-toothed snarl that has mirthless laughter etched across her skin. _Her_ Lavellan, her _Ellana,_ is not as wily, not as cruel, not as bitter. At least, she does not think so. The shape of Lavellan flickers at the edge, and the apparition tilts its head _just like she does_. Cassandra almost retches at the cloying scent of ambrette and iris root. There’s something sickeningly sweet in that scent now.

“You know,” the apparition murmurs. It reaches out to stroke its cold fingers down Cassandra’s face in a make-believe version of Lavellan’s habits. “I wouldn’t appear like this if it wasn’t your own fantasy and if it wasn’t the truth. Your precious, lovely bird has some iron in her bones, some broken-glass shards in that heart of hers, and infinite power pulsating through her blood and out her palm. She snarls like this when you aren’t looking, my sweet. This is what she looks like when the world makes her become brutal again.” She leans in to croon, “Heroes aren’t heroes if they are nothing more than simple, happy people. Those are empty people, nothing delicious or precious about them at all. Heroes are nothing except neatly-wrapped tragedies, _lethallan._ Hero of Orlais, aren’t you? You should know better.”

Cassandra stumbles away from the apparition, and it lets her go. It watches, no, _studies_ her with more than a fair degree of intrigue in its gaze. “Such a faithful woman,” it scoffs. “I cannot see why _she_ loves you just as much. Different religions, different attitudes on the world, different backgrounds, different everythings. A little mess of contradictories you two are. Go ahead then. Leave. I care not for your kind of people. You all tend to disintegrate into proselytizing, weeping, chanting messes when I take too much out of you.”

“Cassandra?”

The familiar voice doesn’t come from the lips of the apparition, and Cassandra gratefully stumbles towards the sound. Magic — mana that feels like open skies and open hearts — splits the heavy fog open with a gleaming sword built of mana and spirit energy. The real Lavellan — _Ellana_ — comes around a jutting spike of green stone with her Anchor sputtering emerald light all over Cassandra. “I have been looking for you,” she exhales as she pulls Cassandra into an embrace. Lavellan’s touch makes Cassandra freeze as she remembers the inherent _wrongness_ of the apparition’s touch. Lavellan pulls away, confused, but then, her expression slips into something more haunted.

“Oh, _da’len_ , I missed you,” the apparition sweetly calls out.

Lavellan stands motionless, and the haunting expression slips into something different. A cross between the steely expression Cassandra saw once at Haven’s destruction and the devastated look she saw at Redcliffe. The apparition advances on them, and Lavellan still makes no other sound. However, with every step, the apparition of a man warps into something more demon-like with protrusions jutting from its skin and the flesh warping into a shape Cassandra recognizes.

Abomination.

“Is this how you greet your father?” it inquires in the same dulcet tone. “ _Da’len_ , I am hurt. Your mother is safe and sound, and all the templars are dead. Come now, the clan is waiting for us. There is no one left to harm you and Mahanon now.”

That last sentence jolts Lavellan out of her daze, and she snarls back, “That was _not_ your name to give, demon. You are not my father. _Papae_ and _mamae_ are both dead, and there is nothing you can do to fool me.”

 _Mahanon._ The name strikes a discordant note among Cassandra’s thoughts, and then it all clicks together. M. Lavellan’s brother.

The apparition laughs and laughs and laughs, and its form flickers between an elven woman and an elven man — both Dalish, both similar to Lavellan’s own face — before it finally settles on the appearance of a templar with the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on his breastplate. “Smart one, you are, my sweet _L,_ ” it chuckles. It draws out the letter into a long _Ell_ before it laughs at its own cleverness.It raps its own breastplate and says, “This one is the first human man you ever murdered, yes? I think I got the details all down.” It lifts its visor to show blue eyes, brown hair, and sun-tanned skin. Lavellan recoils, and that causes the apparition to wink. “Good application of fire, in my opinion. Always your father’s daughter, no? Your brother takes more after your mother and her lightning. But you? You always had your father’s spark. I should know; I was the one to accept his offer after all.”

Lavellan’s shoulders begin to tremble, and the apparition trills, “Delicious, he was! So full of righteous anger and hatred too! Not for you or your brother or your _dear_ mother, of course, but for the templars and the Chantry. He took a fair number down with him too. Such a strong one until _you_ snuffed out all the fun.” It glances at Cassandra and snorts, “Bet you didn’t know _that_ about your precious Herald, Seeker. So many contradictories this one has. So much blood on her hands.”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra slowly says.

The apparition laughs as it shifts back to the elven man. Cassandra can see the familiar lines of Lavellan’s face on his own before the face twitches into the shape of an elven woman. The woman bears an even closer resemblance to Lavellan with the same vallaslin etched across her cheeks and the same shade of eyes. Lavellan reaches out blindly for Cassandra’s hand, and when she finds it, she clutches onto it tightly. Cassandra can’t feel Lavellan’s glove through her own gauntlet, but she can feel the pressure regardless. She can also feel Lavellan shaking.

“Go on, _da’len_ , tell your precious _vhenan_ about how you killed those Templars,” the woman croons. “Don’t you feel miserable, little Lavellan? First, your mother sacrifices herself so that you and your pretty little brother can make back to the clan safely, but then, you get caught again! And then your father gets sucked into the mix, trying to save his precious family.” The apparition pauses before it steps closer to brush a hand across Lavellan’s cheek. With an index finger, it traces the branches lined across Lavellan’s face and murmurs, “Am I doing your memory justice, little First? Your father called out to me, you know, with a scream as sweet as honey. Oh, it felt like bliss to split open his skin and settle in his bones and crack every chain apart.”

Lavellan’s voice hardens as she hisses, “Do not touch me, evil thing.”

“Oh, but your hands were stained with both your father’s and mother’s blood too, no?” the apparition shoots back. “Although, I will admit that your mother’s blood was first spilled by me. I’m not sorry; she tasted wonderful.”

“I killed you once,” Lavellan answers evenly. “I can kill you again.”

The apparition steps back and spreads its arms wide open with a smug smirk. “We are in the raw Fade now, _da’len_ , you cannot touch me in my domain. And you didn’t kill me. You killed your father’s body and all those other bodies as well. You were soaked in red, _ma’da’ean.”_

Lavellan snarls — a sound that is part grief, part pain, and part rage — and lunges forward with her Anchor flaring bright. The apparition merely smiles before it fades out of sight and reappears behind Lavellan . That doesn’t phase Lavellan who bares her teeth and snaps her magic like a whip. Her aura spans outward like a thin net before it tangles around the apparition. The apparition grows hazy around the edges of its outline, but the green flare of Lavellan’s Anchor keeps it from moving. Lavellan brings her staff sharply down to crack against the ground and create a pillar of fire that consumes the apparition.

It laughs, and the sound of its laugh deepens into a roar. Lavellan takes a step back to push Cassandra squarely behind her before bringing up a barrier. They’re both pushed back by the sheer force of the gale the demon sends against them. Lavellan glances back at Cassandra and breathes out, “I will protect you. Always.” Then, she faces forward once more before summoning up a maelstrom of lightning and fire. The storm rages around them, and Lavellan draws her spirit blade and starts cutting a path for herself within the raging Fade. The storm hides Lavellan from view, and Cassandra stands there, biting her lip with worry. She tastes blood on her tongue and realizes that she bit down too hard. It feels like an eternity and more until Lavellan hauls the demon out of the storm and throws it to the ground, almost at Cassandra’s feet.

 _“Dareth shiral,” Lavellan_ says before she brings her spirit blade down into its chest. The demon flickers through a myriad of forms, and Cassandra spots her brother, her uncle, even Divine Justinia before the forms flicker through the same images of the elven man and woman. Finally, the demon settles on Lavellan’s own face and turns its face to Cassandra. With its dying breath, it cracks a devilish smile and says, “I know what your desires are, Seeker. Will you ever meet them, I wonder.” It laughs again before it chokes on its own blood and dies.

It keeps Lavellan’s form throughout the entire process, and Cassandra feels like her heart is tearing in two when she sees it die. She has to look up at Lavellan to confirm that her love isn’t actually dying in front of her. When the demon stops moving completely, Cassandra steps over its corpse to pull Lavellan into an embrace. This Lavellan is warm to the touch, hard and sharp only where her armor is, and quietly shaking. This is her Lavellan, her Ellana. Her true name feels like a precious treasure, not to be wasted, not to be used without care, and Cassandra uses it now as she whispers _Ellana_ into Lavellan’s hair.

“I will… Tell you more later,” Lavellan finally says. “Thank you, _ma serannas, vhenan,_ thank you. But… I cannot. I cannot talk about this, not now. We must move on.”

Cassandra pulls back just enough to check Lavellan’s expression. She brushes some soot off Lavellan’s cheek and doesn’t say anything more. Half of her wonders what Lavellan is capable of and what she’s done in the past. The elven man and woman looked too much like Lavellan for comfort, and based on Lavellan’s reaction, Cassandra thinks there may be some truth to the demon’s words.

She’s afraid. Cassandra doesn’t think she knows enough about Lavellan other than what she allows her to know. She wonders if she loves an illusion of Lavellan rather than Lavellan herself. But Lavellan promised her that she would explain later, and Lavellan has never lied to her. Never, not even once. Cassandra settles the thought with that.

Lavellan carves through the fog to make a path for themselves, and at the end of the path, the others wait. Dorian looks paler than usual, and his smile is brittle at best. His sash has a new rip in it, and his staff still crackles with leftover energy. “Did you run into a nuisance like us?” he calls out. “I hope you ran it through with your sword.”

Hawke grimaces, “The Fade still hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. Just as many demons wanting to trick you. They made my brother look prettier than he actually is and with a weirder accent. It was so incredibly awkward to stand there and watch him. I _know_ my brother is uglier than that. Uncanny, I tell you.”

Lavellan only sighs and sets off down the path again, but she keeps her spirit blade materialized in her hand. Cassandra wants to twitch her fingers over to rub away the traces of touch the demon left behind. But she can’t; she must carry her sword and shield. _Stay calm, stay calm,_ she tells herself. She cannot afford to lose her composure now.

That’s why she thinks she’s hallucinating when she catches a glimpse of white and red in the distance. As she walks further, the white and red blooms into a figure that stands by a shelf of large rock. The shape is familiar: an outline that she’s spent years watching.

“Most Holy,” Cassandra gasps.

The entire group pauses, and then, the figure turns to face them. Sure enough, it is Justinia. Her tall hat still frames her face, and the Chantry insignia is still embroidered down her robes. There is nothing that has changed from the memories Cassandra has of her. It hurts to see her like this: whole instead of torn, alive instead of dead, safe instead of burned. All the grief Cassandra buried at Haven breaks back up to the surface, and all she wants to do is curl up in a ball and cry.

“You,” Lavellan says, soft but dangerous. She tilts the angle of her grip so that the edge of her spirit blade is in Justinia’s direction.

“Greetings, Inquisitor,” Justinia says with an incline of her head. “And I greet you, Warden, and you as well, Champion.” Her expression cracks when she sees Cassandra, and in a bare and broken whisper, she says, “And Cassandra, my dear and faithful friend.”

“You were there,” Lavellan says, her voice hard and flat. “At Haven.”

Justinia dips her head in a slight nod, and now, Cassandra bursts out, “Most Holy, how can you be here? Are you trapped here? Are you?”

Stroud narrows his eyes and warns, “I fear it is a spirit or a demon, Seeker Pentaghast.”

Justinia turns her gaze over to the Warden and says, “In truth, you think my survival is impossible, yet you stand in the Fade like I do. I believe arguing the nature of my existence would take time none of us have. And Inquisitor, you do not remember your time at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, yes?”

“Divine Justinia the Fifth,” Lavellan still says. Her voice is even and steady as she presses on, “Mother Giselle and Leliana tell me that you ascended in 9:34 Dragon.”

“Correct.”

Lavellan regards her with the same piercing gaze she uses for judgments and executions. “But Divine Justinia the Fifth,” she says. “the question is a simple yes or no. Are you human? Yes or no?” She gestures to the expanse of the Fade with her Anchored hand and continues, “But besides that, Divine Justinia the Fifth, you would not be able to know if I was made a Herald or an Inquisitor if you were in the Fade as a human. Even if you gained access to my memories via the Fade at Haven, you would not be able to see into the future.”

Justinia bends her head down, gaze pinned to the ground. “I know you, Inquisitor,” she finally says. “You are Lavellan of the high plains, First to Clan Lavellan, canonized as the Herald of Andraste, and exalted as the Inquisitor.” She raises her gaze to meet Lavellan eye to eye. “I know this because the demon who serves Corypheus has stolen your memories at the Temple. The demon watches you from the Fade, Inquisitor, and I know as well. It is the Nightmare that resides in this place, growing fat off of the fear and terror across Thedas, from the memories of the darkness.”

“Then…” Lavellan trails off to look at the distance. Her expression hardens as she says, “Is the False Calling its work?”

Justinia nods.

In a low, seething voice, Stroud grits out, “So this is the work of a demon? I would gladly avenge my brothers and sisters by spilling its blood across the Fade.” He does not have his weapon drawn, but his hand settles on the pommel of his sword.

Dorian’s lips twist into an unhappy frown. “How does Corypheus have so many demons at his beck and call?” he asks.

Justinia glances over at the dark castle in the distance and murmurs, “He is one of the magisters that tried to take the Golden City, young man. I know not how he binds them. Perhaps it is the power of the Blight that is tied to him or perhaps he holds a greater power.” Her attention focuses back on Lavellan as she says, “But there is a more pressing issue. Your memories, Inquisitor. The Nightmare has them.”

“My memories?” Lavellan muses. She lets the spirit blade dissipate from her grasp, and she reaches her right hand to brush over the Anchor once more. It responds to her touch easily, settling the broken shards of light that seem to halo Lavellan in an ethereal, terrifying glow.

“That is why you cannot remember anything from the Temple,” Justinia adds. “We cannot tarry.”

Cassandra can’t hold herself back any longer and takes a step forward as she calls out, “Most Holy!” Her voice cracks on the word “holy” and she wonders if she will make it through the Fade. Not even a full day has passed, but she feels drained.

“Oh, Cassandra,” Justinia breathes out. Her eyes are soft, and her face wrinkles into a gentle smile. That expression pains Cassandra even more; it’s the way she looked when she offered Cassandra her advice and her help. Being the Right Hand was a demanding job, paid with the prices of a thousand lives and a thousand events, all stacked up on the ledgers of the Divine. But Justinia was a kinder Divine, a Divine that Cassandra was proud to serve. Her loss feels sharp and renewed underneath Cassandra’s skin, like a scab torn over a healed wound.

“Are you… Are you real?” Cassandra tries. That is one thing she must confirm.

Justinia nods, “I am as real as you are, my dear.”

“But… Are you alive? Could we save you?” Cassandra tries. The words rush out of her into a torrent as she continues breathelssly, “Oh, Most Holy, could we take you back to the world? The Chantry is in shambles, we are broken into pieces, you… We lost you. I lost you.”

“But you did not lose a continent,” Justinia says. She moves forward — the first time she’s moved since they’ve gotten here — and she reaches out to brush her hand against Cassandra’s shoulder. But she stops. She pulls her hand back. Cassandra doesn’t know if it’s because Justinia can no longer physically touch her or if it’s because Justinia knows that Cassandra will break down into tears with another touch. Instead, she continues, “Thedas was on the verge of a breaking point, and you did far better than any of us could have demanded from you. In fact, none of us have any right to ask more from you than what you have given, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. You are devoted, you are faithful, and your love runs deep and strong. You have grown since the last time I remember seeing you, Cassandra. Not all is lost, but we must get moving.”

Cassandra doubts her. Truly, she does, but Justinia has never lied to her. That is another thing that she trusts about both Justinia and Lavellan . Neither of them have ever lied to her. They are better than that. She believes in that at least. Cassandra doubts only for a moment before she tips her head back and stares at the seething sky. The Black City remains on the horizon. That and the pseudo-Breach are the only things that have remained constant in the vast, rippling area of the Fade. She tips her head back down and faces Justinia. Cassandra glances over at Lavellan before she commits to her final answer and says, “Thank you.”

The Maker is not usually kind. That is a bitter truth that Cassandra learned to swallow after the Conclave. But perhaps, the Maker is kind about the little things. The fact that she is meeting Justinia now. The fact that she is alive after the Conclave. The fact that she met Ellana of Clan Lavellan. Although, in retrospect of that thought, Cassandra does not think these things are little. She would never dare to call something like meeting Lavellan _little._ But perhaps the Maker is more present than Cassandra realizes. Her faith has been tested and nearly broken by the entirety of this war, and she reflects back on the past year within a sliver of a moment. And she understands. It is what it is, and she will keep her faith. Justinia may be a spirit, but it is a spirit with Justinia’s memories. Cassandra will accept that.

She moves on, and Justinia guides them through the Fade. That is another thing that ties this Justinia to the Justinia Cassandra once knew. The same desire to help, the compassion, the kindness. That is familiar and welcoming. It hurts, but it is the good kind of hurt.

Lavellan glances over to Justinia and asks, “Do you know more about the Mark?”

Justinia hesitates before she answers, “It is the needle that pulls the thread. It helps you pierce through the Veil whether it be to tear it open or to sew it back together.”

“It would let you walk in the Fade as you would walk in reality,” Solas says with a wrinkle in his brow. It makes the scar over his eyebrow furrow in even deeper, and Cassandra wonders how he knows this.

Justinia only adds to her suspicions by saying, “Correct.”

“Solas…” Lavellan murmurs. “Does that mean...?”

Solas folds his hands behind his back and surveys the Black City with a bleak expression. Without looking at Lavellan, he says, “Without it, Corypheus cannot access the Black City. It is part of you now and cannot be removed without your death.”

“Solas, is that true?” Lavellan asks

“From what I have observed about it so far…. Yes. It is unhealable and unremovable,” Solas says. His mouth pinches into an unhappy frown, and Cassandra can’t help but feel the same way. Corypheus will have to step over her dead body before he can kill Lavellan for her Anchor.

They progress and they fight, and this is the one familiar thing Cassandra is grateful for. Her armor and her weapon are all lighter, so she dances through battle as if she was flying through the air. The weight of the sword in her hand is unfamiliar, but all the motions are. She cuts through other demons and fearlings as if they were cardboard and she was radiant, brilliant fire. Lavellan blazes even brighter as she follows Cassandra with her sword of energy. “I will always be there by your side, _vhenan,”_ she pants as she cuts down one fearling. It skitters sideways on its remaining four legs, but Lavellan strikes it down with a bolt of lightning. She raises her blade and absorbs the energy that rebounds back at her. The blade gleams, and Lavellan looks at Cassandra with a bitter smile. “I will be there,” she repeats.

So, they run and they fight. All along, a deep voice resonating through the entire land taunts them. “Perhaps _I_ should be afraid,” it laughs. The vibrations of the laugh rolls through the ground like some earthquake, but Lavellan presses onward. “The most powerful members of the Inquisition here to slaughter _me._ But Cassandra, my dear Seeker, you’ve already been told this once by a lesser one, but you must face the truth. You are a Seeker of Truth, but you know only lies, deceit, fraud. Your Inquisitor is no Herald, your heart is not what it seems, and there is more blood stained across this false Herald’s hands than anyone else will ever bear. And look, is that the false image of Justinia? Only more proof that your Maker does not exist.”

“Die in the Void, demon,” Cassandra grits out.

“You are helpless, Seeker,” it taunts. “Your greatest fear, isn’t it? But look at the Conclave. Look at Therinfal Redoubt. You are helpless and each failure only serves to emphasize it.”

“You talk a lot, don’t you?” Hawke interjects. “Do you have nothing else better to do? I hear knitting is popular. You can make useful things like scarves and hats. Maker knows that’s all the ladies at Kirkwall did.” She pauses and tacks on, “They also embroidered. You could start embroidering all that pent-up rage out instead of being… That. You know.”

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke?” the Nightmare adds instead. It sounds positively delighted to have a new target for its pointed jibes. “Did you think anything you did ever mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. How can you expect to strike down a god? Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone else you ever cared about.”

“Tiresome,” Hawke sighs. She flaps her hand at the sky and sticks her tongue out at it for good measure. “Shut it. The effect wears off after a while if you keep repeating gloomy things like that.”

Stroud glances over at Hawke and opens his mouth to say something, but Dorian immediately shushes him. He even adds a good gesture to convey a sentiment along the lines of “talk and you’re going to get your own turn with the Giant Fear Demon.”

Stroud wisely shuts up.

Hawke, however, trudges onward as the demon sneers, “Is that you tried to tell yourself after Bethany died? After Leandra died? Or perhaps Malcolm?”

The color drains from Hawke’s face, so Lavellan clears her throat and says, “I think that is enough.” She dissipates her spirit blade in favor of slinging her staff off her back and making the top of it crackle with an energy that rivals the blazing rifts Lavellan rips and sews in the Veil.

“Oh, _ma’da’ean,_ we are only getting started,” the Nightmare cackles. “Must we go into your personal history as well? Let’s see, what do you fear the most?”

“Loss,” Lavellan says frankly. “I have already seen my grave and what is written on it. But go on. I do not mind. I fear loss, both for reasons within and outside the Inquisition, but fears are fears. They will only magnify if you avoid them.”

“Such a pretty sentiment,” Nightmare muses. “How long will that last? I will always remain.”

“All nightmares come and pass,” Lavellan asserts. “And if you always remained, then you would no longer be anything special. Only just a dream, nothing more and nothing less. You must have a variety of emotions to make one stand out from the other.” She taps her staff against the ground with a soft huff of laughter and adds, “Also, you sound vaguely like you have a cold. I would suggest elfroot tea or warm halla milk with honey. It would help the rasp in your throat. The tonal quality of your voice is not good. I would expect nightmares to sound better.”

The Nightmare doesn’t respond. Cassandra exchanges a glance with Dorian and wonders if Lavellan just lectured a demon to silence.

 _“Fasta vass,_ Lavellan,” Dorian snickers. “That was brilliant.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Lavellan says with a nod of her head.

The Nightmare sullenly mutters, “Oh, Dorian, Dorian, I almost didn’t recognize you. I thought you were Halward.”

“Oh, now that was uncalled for,” Dorian snips. But Cassandra sees the way that he clenches his fist around his staff. Lavellan notices too, and her eyes spark with an incandescent fury. There is nothing she hates more than when someone insults her friends.

That same fury churns into a greater, wider net of flame that Lavellan summons up when they finally face the aspect of the Nightmare. It faces them with its moon-bleached face, and the bones that stretch out of its back like spider’s legs fan out as if they were wings. “You cannot survive the storm, Fade walker,” the Nightmare bellows out.

The entire landscape changes, and the world warps into something more like the real world. Twisted lumps erupt from the ground to reveal more fearlings shaped like spiders and some are shaped like burning humanoid figures that Cassandra knows in her heart to be the templars, the mages, every person that died at Haven. One stumbles too close to Lavellan, and before Cassandra strikes it down, she spots a familiar set of vallaslin shot through with red lyrium. It’s an image of Lavellan’s brother — Mahanon if she remembers the name from the demon’s lips properly — and Cassandra assumes that it’s from the other future Lavellan saw at Redcliffe..  
  
Lavellan doesn’t budge a single inch. Instead, she plants her feet firmly to the shifting ground. She bares her teeth in a facsimile of a smile as she says, “No need to worry; I am the storm.”   
  
In the heaving, gaping jaws of the greater beast behind the Aspect, Cassandra can see an apparition of a wolf. Beside her, Solas freezes. Lavellanonly laughs, “You cannot scare me with the Dread Wolf. He is nothing more than a lonely wolf without a pack.”

Nightmare ignores her and presses, “But if you are the storm, would you not destroy those around you? They would burn. Would you burn instead? Burn for all these people that you have failed?”  
  
“Gratefully,” Lavellan replies with as much acid as she can put into the word. She draws her sword out of the pure Fade and crafts it into a weapon larger than Cassandra’s ever seen before. The sword warps against the energy of the Nightmare and shifts it into more of a scythe. Lavellanglances down on it and readjusts her grasp on it. “I can take whatever you can give,” she says with a cold, icy tone. “It will not stop me from devastating this place. It will not stop me from killing you.”

“You may try, _da’len_ , you may try,” the Nightmare says. Its puppet’s jaws hang open to reveal sharper teeth lining its mouth in multiple rows, and it offers Lavellan a gruesome version of a demonic smile.

Without losing a beat, Lavellan starts the battlefield off by encasing the monster in a column of ice. It shrieks as the cold mana snaps around its ankles and chains it down. Stroud and Cassandra move in with their swords while Solas weaves barriers around them. Cassandra notes the way he weaves the barrier first around Lavellan and tighter around her as she starts wielding her scythe. She is grateful for that before she turns her full attention on the Aspect.

Behind her, she can sense Hawke’s wild magic stretching up and out to cover the battlefield in what feels like brambles of magic. Whenever a fearling or another demon tries to enter the fray, Hawke slams it with a fist of pure force that radiates out from the impact and rattles the other demons in the general vicinity. Dorian follows it up by sending lightning snaking around the entire perimeter. It snaps and crackles with the hiss of a forgotten storm, and his energy shifts to a more necromantic turn as it rots everything it touches. The scent rises up in the air and burns off to a clean scent of ozone and petrichor when Lavellan casts her net of magic over the battlefield. It settles over Cassandra’s skin, and it’s a familiar sensation.

Lavellan has a habit of casting in wide swathes, leaving tendrils of magic in wait for when she needs them. As she steps and moves across the battlefield, she activates different parts of her net where she wants them to. Lavellan dives out of the way and rolls to Cassandra’s left, and with a snarl on her face, she yanks her Anchored hand so that a demon gets entangled in ice and fire. Another demon stumbles towards her and she swings her scythe up to make her net embed into the ground in a series of fire mines.

The world turns into a miasma of flashing magic, twisted limbs that jut out from demon bodies, and a constant light from the rift that hangs overhead. Cassandra drives her own sword deeply into the body of a terror demon and uses the momentum to slam that body into the Aspect’s. It stumbles back, but the bones on its back flare out to steady it. Cassandra yanks her blade out of the body and bashes her shield against its hard carapace. It’s hard to find any purchase against it, so she braces against the impact of its hit. That way, Lavellan has a space to swing her scythe down and break the outer edge of the carapace. Stroud steps in to open the gap in its armor even wider with his sword. He grits his teeth and mutters something in Orlesian before he tears the carapace open. Dorian sends a few sparks towards their direction, and they embed themselves in the Aspect’s flesh. Cassandra glances over at Lavellan who sees the shining opportunity.

 _“Mythal’enaste,”_ she hisses out before she reaches into her pocket and unstoppers a vial of lyrium with her teeth. She spits out the cork and pours the lyrium down her throat. Her magic suddenly wrenches from a green cast to a brilliant blue, and her hands seem to explode into a corona of flaring light. The only thing that remains dark on her are the branches of her vallaslin engraved onto her face. Lavellan raises her burning Anchor and the scythe forms into something so bright that Cassandra has to shield her eyes.

But she hears the sickening crunch of the Aspect’s body breaking. She watches Lavellan’s shadow raise its hand up again, and now, she can smell the heavy, acrid scent of burning flesh. Lavellan raises her hand one more time and drives something deeply into the Aspect’s heart, and the body falls to the ground, limp and lifeless.

Cassandra slowly raises her gaze to meet Lavellan’s, and her Anchor now shines with a greater light than before. Lavellan’s eyes reflect the light back like flat disks of color, and Cassandra can’t see her pupils properly. She looks like some terrible and beautiful god, drenched in ichor and magic and wreathed in fearful divinity. She has blood spattered across her nose like some sort of facsimile of Hawke’s signature war paint, but her eyes reveal her weariness and her unyielding rage. “We must move on,” she says in the voice she uses for judgements. There is no space to bend in that tone, no space to question or yield or ask. It simply is. But then, her voice cracks, and Lavellan says, “But the Nightmare… It is still in our way, but we do not have much time. I can feel that rift, and it is become less and less stable.”

Cassandra glances back at the carnage they left behind. A few glyphs still glimmer on the ground where the mages left them, and she can see the skid marks of her boots against some of the softer ground. Further along in the distance, she sees Justinia. The image of the Divine is so tenuous and faded that Cassandra doesn’t know if it’s even real or not. At this distance, she can’t hear anything the ghost has left to say, but she thinks the Divine mouths out something along the lines of “I am proud of you.” Cassandra faces Lavellan again if only to keep herself from grieving again. But she has survived this grief once, and she can survive it again. She _will_ survive it again, and she takes Justinia’s words to heart.

Lavellan regards them, and Cassandra can see the mantle of leadership weighing down her shoulders. Lavellan’s gaze moves from each and every one, and that is when Cassandra knows that it will take a sacrifice to make it to the rift.

Cassandra considers sacrificing herself; she will die before she ever lets Lavellan get trapped here. But Hawke suddenly says, “It’s my duty, I caused this by not killing Corypheus properly.” She turns to look at Lavellan with a bittersweet look in her eye. “I’ll hold the Nightmare off. Run while you can.”

Stroud’s gruff voice with its heavy Orlesian accent cuts in, “No, Mademoiselle Hawke, this shall be my duty. To end this plague upon the Wardens? It would be my duty to end.” Stroud smiles sadly and recites, “In peace, vigilance. In war, victory.” He takes a small, shuddering breath as the Fade flickers in front of him. Cassandra can scarcely begin to think of what could have appeared in front of him in that very moment. But Stroud finishes, “In death, sacrifice.”  
  
“No,” Lavellan breathes out. She clears her throat and says it louder, “No, I won’t let either of you sacrifice yourselves.” But the wavering end of her sentence displays her doubt, clear as day. Lavellan may want all she wants, but now, all of them know that there must be a sacrifice to make it through to another day.

Hawke reaches out to grip Lavellan’s arm, and with a certain kind of desperate nonchalance, she says lightly, “Tell Fenris, tell Carver, tell Varric... Tell everyone that I loved them all.” She lets Lavellan go and turns to face the Nightmare.

Hawke prepares to rush in as her hands ignite with her mana, but Stroud cries out, “No!” Hawke pauses for only a moment, but it’s enough time for Stroud to pull Hawke back. He firmly says, “You have much left to live for, Champion.”

Hawke looks back at Stroud with a pained expression as she breathes out, “What kind of Champion would I be if I did not do this?”

Stroud looks at her straight in the eyes as he enunciates slowly and carefully, “A champion who lives.”

Stroud glances back at Lavellan, and Cassandra sees the way Lavellan flicks her gaze between the two. Back and forth, back and forth. Cassandra’s heart hurts, but she stays silent. This is Lavellan’s decision to make.

The broken body of the aspect trembles before it hauls itself up to face them. Lavellan bristles, ready to reach out for her spirit blade at any moment, but it settles for giving them another monstrous smile. Even the Nightmare knows that they must sacrifice one. “You must put Lavellan clan first,” Nighmare croons. He mimics Lavellan’s Dalish accent as he continues, “You will be Keeper one day, _da’len._ You must save them all. You are slipping, _da’len_ , you are losing.”

A corner of Stroud’s lips quirk up as he says, “Would you honor me with a final blessing from the Herald of Andraste herself?”

Lavellan shakes her head and says helplessly, “I… I am not a Herald, I do not have anything to do with your Andraste.”

“A blessing from the leader who will save Thedas then,” he says as he inclines his head.

Lavellan whispers, “Are you sure?”

Hawke steps forward, eyes still burning as she says, “Make the final choice, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan shuts her eyes, and Cassandra knows she is considering her prospects: weighing the choices, balancing the scales. The Nightmare laughs and bellows, “You would be a terrible Keeper, child of the plains, child of Clan Lavellan. Sentimentality is nothing compared to the continued survival of the clan. The clan is always over the individuals. That is the rule. Even your precious Keeper Deshanna would never sacrifice the clan for one person.”

“I have a promise to keep,” Lavellan says quietly. “To a friend and to a brother.”

Cassandra knows what choice Lavellan will make now. The wooden griffin from Blackwall remains in her pockets, and the weight of it feels like a burning sensation. She made an agreement with Blackwall in what seems like an entire age ago in regards to the Wardens, and this feels like she’s turning her back on it. But Cassandra is not making the choice here; Lavellan is. And Lavellan makes her choice with a bitter sense of finality.

“I am sorry, Stroud,” Lavellan whispers, choking out the words over a knot of regret and sorrow and utter anger that must be twisting itself tighter in her chest.

Stroud bows his head, and Hawke looks strangely hopeful. Lavellan takes a step toward Stroud and lifts her hand to trace the marks and blessings of her gods on his face.

“I am not sent by your god,” she says solemnly. “But I will pray for you, bless for you, call upon my gods to smile upon your fate.” She moves her hands in practiced, deft motions. “May Elgar’nan give you strength in your fight, may Andruil give you her cunning and her dexterity,” she breathes out as she shapes the signs of the gods with her fingers. Cassandra can hear the sharp intake of Solas’s breath as she chants out the ancient words, but Lavellan ignores him.

Lavellan’s Common bleeds into the old tongue, _elvhen,_ as she continues. Cassandra looks over to Solas who looks pained. However, he bends his head and quietly translates, “May Ghilan’nain guide your path in your journey, and may Dirthamen give you his secrets to aid in any way. May Sylaise keep your body healthy, and may Mythal grant you her blessings.”

Lavellan finishes her small incantation, and her mana settles around Stroud’s shoulders like a mantle. Cassandra looks around, and although she can’t see the fearlings anymore, she can feel them press in closer with her Seeker abilities. Lavellan seals her charm and finishes in Common, “And may Falon’Din guide you safely into the Beyond. May the Maker and Andraste watch over you, and… And may your burden be eased when you pass. _Dareth shiral, lethallin,_ you will not be forgotten.”

“In peace, vigilance,” Stroud softly whispers. “In war, victory. In death, sacrifice.” He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply. To Cassandra and her Seeker senses, she can feel the light emanating from Lavellan’s blessing, and it seems like Stroud can feel it too. He lifts his hands to brush them over his shoulders, trying to feel the magic that Lavellan settled there. Then, with a final nod, he takes a step back: the first step into the beginning of the end. Then, he looses a loud war cry that echoes in the raw Fade. The Nightmare shifts its many-Lavellan gaze towards him and unhinges its slavering jaws. As he charges into battle, Lavellan , Cassandra, Hawke, and the others rush towards the apparition of the Divine, towards the glowing rift, towards their world.

As they run, a single tear rolls down Lavellan’s cheek.

“May his journey be quick,” she prays in desperate and pleading words. Cassandra looks back only once to see Stroud raise his sword up high. The metal gleams as it comes down and cleaves one of the Nightmare’s spindly legs. “Have mercy, Falon’Din,” Lavellan says over the distant sounds of battle. The Fade warps beneath her Anchored hand, but she finishes, “Guide him safely. Guide him quickly.”

They fall, just like they did at the beginning of it all, and they fall back into reality where gravity pulls at Cassandra’s armor and sword with a familiar kind of weight. She lands heavily on the ground and has to stumble a few steps forward before she regains her balance.

The Wardens are already there, but Corypheus’s archdemon is not. One Warden steps forward and with an awestruck expression widening his eyes, he breathes out, “Inquisitor? Your Worship, is that… Is that you?”

Lavellan closes the rift behind her with a wave of her Anchored hand. Before she closes it completely, another loud war cry echoes from the Fade and into the remaining wreckage of Adamant. The Warden takes another step forward but with alarm this time. “Where is Stroud?!” he asks, his voice veritably bleeding with apprehension.

“He is… He sacrificed himself to…” Lavellan bows her head, and Cassandra can see her tamping down every emotional part of her. When she lifts her head up again, she has the mask of the Inquisitor on. The perfect leader. The one they have crafted her into, the one she has become in her own right. She clears her throat and in a louder voice, she calls out, “Warden Stroud died striking a blow against a servant of the Blight. I will never forget him. He told me once: in death, sacrifice. We should never forget what he has done for us because he died upholding the ideals of the Grey Wardens and because he died for the sake of Thedas. May Falon’Din guide his path to the land of the dead.”

“No… No, Stroud didn’t.. Oh, _Stroud_ … Inquisitor, w-we…” the Warden says again, shaking his head with disbelief. “We have no one else of significant rank. What are we going to do?”

Lavellan lifts her head, and now, Cassandra can see the grief making way to angry determination in her eyes. “Stay,” Lavellan orders. “Do whatever you can to help. Both Clarel and Stroud’s last words were your motto. In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice. Both of them sacrificed themselves so that we may continue. In war, victory, and we still have a war to fight. Will you stand with me, Wardens? Will you stand with me against the war with Corypheus? Will you strike back at a man who allies himself with the Blight?”

With each word Lavellan proclaims, Cassandra can see each Warden lift their heads up and stare at her. She knows what they see: divinity forged from battle, half-heaven and half-hell in a woman spattered with the blood of sacrifice. Like a slow and quiet wave, the Wardens’ shoulders begin to straighten, and then, the first one cries out, “We stand with you, Inquisitor Lavellan! We stand with you!”

That marks the start of the Grey Warden alliance with the Inquisition. It is a decision that Cassandra does not agree with, and she can already tell that it’s alienating some of Lavellan’s companions. Solas, for example, bites his lip with such force that he bleeds scarlet red. Almost no one notices since they’re drenched in grime and blood from the Fade, but Cassandra knows. She also wants to stop Lavellan and ask her _why_ she insists on taking in the broken remnants of a vulnerable Order. They were manipulated once. They can be manipulated again. But then, she remembers the wooden griffon in her pocket. She pulls it out, and miraculously, it’s still whole. She can see each detail that Blackwall lovingly carved into it, and she looks back at Lavellan who stands in front of the crowd with her Anchored hand outstretched. Lavellan has hope in that hand, and she extends it freely to anyone who wants it.

It’s hard to stay angry after that.

The final straw comes when two figures come barreling through the crowd. A tall Grey Warden has a dwarf with a crossbow on his back, and the Warden elbows people out of the way with a familiar kind of desperation. Just before they find Hawke, Cassandra can see the blatant distress and agony written over their faces. Varric’s the first to find Hawke amongst the people that gather around Lavellan. He cries out, _“Hawke!”_

Carver lurches to the side but starts running towards Hawke once he regains his balance. “Carver!” Hawke screams by Cassandra’s side. “Varric!” The Champion of Kirkwall starts sprinting towards them and tackles them into a hug before she starts sobbing into her brother’s platemail.

 _I have a promise to keep to a friend and to a brother._ That is what Lavellan said to Stroud and Hawke, and now, Cassandra is at a loss. Now, she cannot fault Lavellan for choosing Stroud over Hawke, for choosing the Grey Wardens. She rolls the wooden griffon between her fingers before she slips it back into her pocket. Cassandra steps over to Lavellan and reaches out to hold her hand. Lavellan barely notices among the fervor the Wardens stirred up about her, and Cassandra stares at Lavellan’s hand for the longest time.

She notices small scorch marks and blisters across Lavellan’s hand where she held her malformed blade. Cassandra’s heart aches when she thinks about how many times she almost lost Lavellan for good in the Fade, and she sets aside the encounter with the demon. Instead, she lifts Lavellan’s hand up and places a soft kiss on the back of Lavellan’s hand. That is something Lavellan notices, and Cassandra can feel the familiar flush. Lavellan turns her head to look at her and then at her hand that Cassandra still holds in her hand. There’s still leftover adrenaline running in Cassandra’s system, so she calls that courage and bends down to lay another kiss on Lavellan’s hand. “I almost lost you,” she says hoarsely. “Never. Never again. Don’t leave me, Lavellan . Don’t leave without me.”

Lavellan blinks once, twice, before she exhales and tucks her head in the crook of Cassandra’s shoulder. “I will never leave you,” she finally whispers. “That I promise you, _vhenan._ That, I promise. I do not want to lose you either.”

The rest of the night rushes by in a blur. Cassandra vaguely remembers guiding Lavellan through the throng of Wardens where Cullen has their caravan of horses ready. At one point, Cassandra picks Lavellan up and carries her in her arms when there is no one to see her. The Inquisitor has to look like a bastion of strength in front of their armies and the Wardens, but once they are out of sight, Cassandra wordlessly sweeps Lavellan off her feet. Lavellan protests, but her words quickly subside in favor of curling in closer to Cassandra.

Once they’re in the wagon, they take off their armor. Lavellan unlatches Cassandra’s breastplate and takes off her gauntlets. Cassandra can feel her heartbeat accelerate every time Lavellan’s fingers brush over Cassandra’s exposed skin. Likewise, Cassandra undoes the toggles of Lavellan’s Dalish armor and unwraps the bindings that wrap around Lavellan’s forearms. Once they’re done, they stack the armor beside each other before Cassandra sweeps Lavellan off her feet just to hear her quiet laughter. They ride together like that: Lavellan in Cassandra’s lap, Cassandra’s hand over Lavellan’s heart, and Lavellan’s Anchored hand braced against Cassandra’s heart. That is when Cassandra resolves to tell Lavellan that she loves her. Not now, not when they are battle-weary and wounded. But when they reach Skyhold, Cassandra promises herself that she will tell Lavellan . She almost lost Lavellan once; Cassandra will not lose Lavellan without telling her precious heart the truth of her feelings.

For now, she settles for this temporary lull after battle. For now, she settles for the pattern of Lavellan’s heart beating on beneath her bare hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
>  **ma'da'ean** \- little bird, a nickname used for lavellan by her parents. 
> 
> i honestly wanted to include something more about solas and the fade, but this is from cassandra's perspective and she doesn't understand elvhen / the fade like lavellan would. i had a harder time resolving cassandra's faith with divine justinia / the fade / the fact that lavellan isn't actually sent by andraste herself. i'll re-edit the cut scenes sometime and shove them into ["drops of water in an endless sea"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283470) which is where i keep the majority of my deleted scenes from this fic. idk, i guess i was too impatient to post this vs spending another week on dialogue struggles ahaha
> 
> also, fun hc: lavellan's parents used to call her "little bird" in elvhen, and it startled her to hear varric calling her "birdie" when he finally settled on a nickname for her. too many memories associated with the word, but now, she's building new memories around the nickname.


	10. returning to the shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw:** mention of sexual assault by templars. not explicitly described and only mentioned, but skip through lavellan's memory scene if you wish to avoid this.  
>  **tw:** allusions to sex. no explicit descriptions but again, skip to the confetti scene if you don't want to read it.

After that initial night, Lavellan doesn’t come to Cassandra’s side anymore during their journey back to Skyhold. Instead, she stays with her brother more. She shakes sometimes, by the fireside, and everyone pretends not to notice. Her brother leans over to tighten the cloak around his sister’s shoulders during those times and murmurs something in soft elvhen to soothe her. 

One night, he sighs and asks, “Did you tell everyone your name at this point?” 

Lavellan looks up at him and tries to laugh, but it falls flat. “Yes,” she admits. “I think it is time to give them my full name.” 

“Are you sure?” M tries. He sets down the arrow he’s fletching and pins his sister with a serious, piercing gaze. “Once given, it cannot be taken back,” he warns.

“I know.”

M subsides in silence, and the rest of Lavellan’s inner circle — Cassandra included — watch him. His fingers fly as he deftly slices the feathers down the spines and prepares them for fletching. He purses his lips in concentration as he starts scoring the wood of the arrow, but he finally says, “Then, I suppose I should give you all my name as well.”

“You do not have to,” Lavellan — Ellana — hurries to say. Her gaze darts over to Cassandra, and Cassandra remembers a name choked out by a demon in the Fade. Ellana’s eyes cloud over with emotion, and she rubs her hand over her eyes to ward off the tears that threaten to spill over. Cassandra wonders if Ellana remembers the same moment she’s thinking about.

The quick motion catches M’s attention, and he tries to go for a lighter tone when he says, “Do not worry. If you trust them to give them your name, then I will also follow suit. I am also more comfortable with them now that we have spent the last several moons together, watching each other’s backs and hunting and prying nettles from each other’s behinds.” His eyes sparkle as he laughs, “Although, the last case was only for Lord Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.”

“We promised never to speak of this again,” Dorian groans. “Don’t bring it up again. Please. If you’re going to talk about embarrassing stories, please talk about how you unhooked Josephine’s underclothes from Bull’s horns after the Chargers made him run through the Inquisition laundry lines with his shirt off.”

“I don’t usually wear a shirt,” Bull points out.

M arches an eyebrow and says, “You did not wear your usual harness. You also had vitaar all over your skin and stained Sister Nightingale’s night clothes and Cassandra’s undershirt.”

Cassandra grimaces at that memory. It was one of her white undershirts too, and no matter how she scrubbed, she couldn’t get the streaks of purple out of her shirt. At least it was one of her undershirts for armor instead of a regular tunic or shirt. 

“But my point is that we are close enough for me to give my name willingly,” M says. He slides the feathers into place on his prepared arrow, and he sets it aside. “My name is Mahanon,” he sighs. “M for Mahanon was the easiest. Besides, my sister places more value and importance on giving out full names, and she has  _ always _ been the slower one to trust others with names. If she is comfortable enough to tell you her name, then that is good for me.”

“I am  _ not,” _ Ellana hotly replies. “I give out my name to people I trust!”

Mahanon rolls his eyes but he lets the matter pass. Cassandra, however, reminisces how special the moment felt to her. Maybe there was something to be said about keeping names as precious gifts. A smile spreads across her face that she can’t hold back.

“Hand holding mine, embrace as easy as breathing,” Cole’s voice whispers out.  _ “Ellana, Ellana, Ellana, it feels so right to say, _ her laugh soft and tinkling, her arms wrapping tighter around me.”

“Cole!” Cassandra snaps, flushed with embarrassment. “What did I say about looking into my thoughts?” She squints at the edge of the campfire, trying to make out Cole’s figure against the wavering heat of the fire. There, beside Blackwall, Cassandra thinks she sees his hat. That’s the direction she glares in while everyone else laughs. Dorian and Varric laugh the hardest, and Sera has to pound Varric’s back to keep him from choking.

“No?” Cole asks. “But your thoughts are so loud. I can’t not hear them.” The hat bobs as Cole sways back and forth. Cassandra tries to build a mental barrier around her thoughts, but Cole suddenly laughs out,  _ “No, that clever asshole of an elf! _ A letter for a name, a nickname for a letter,  _ Ell, Ell, the letter L.” _

“Seeker,” Mahanon says slowly. “Did you call me a clever asshole of an elf to Ellana?” 

_ Oh no, _ Cassandra thinks. She rubs the back of her neck and tries to avoid the question by saying, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” But she’s never been a good liar, and she stumbles over her words halfway through. It shouldn’t even matter though because Varric’s busy guffawing it up. 

During these times by the campfire, Ellana seems more at ease. Cassandra doesn’t know if it’s the laughter or the comfort of the darkness that makes Ellana more comfortable. But during the day, Ellana reverts back into Lavellan. A more uneasy, unhappy Lavellan that remains quiet and withdrawn. Cassandra’s seen this before.  _ War shock, _ her mentor once called it. it happened to a couple of Cassandra’s friends in the Order. Cassandra isn’t really sure on the protocol or the specific steps to take to alleviate war shock, but she offers a place by her side whenever Lavellan wants it.

When they arrive to Skyhold, Cullen immediately takes Lavellan to the war room to meet with Leliana and Josephine. Cassandra tries to protest and snaps, “She needs rest!”

Cullen only shakes his head and says, “We have to resolve this as soon as possible and compile together our reports for our next time. We’ll let you know when the meeting is over.”

Cullen doesn’t have to send the messenger though. Cassandra waits outside the war room with her fingers tightly interlaced with each other. It feels like forever, but when Cassandra checks, it’s only been a candlemark or so. After the meeting, Lavellan drags herself out and sinks down besides Cassandra without another word. Her face is pale and drained of color, and it makes her vallaslin look dark, almost like dried and cracked blood. When Lavellan asks her to come to her quarters, Cassandra nods and tells her, “Yes, of course, whenever you want me to.”

“At night then,” Ellana proposes. “After dinner and your training.” She twists her hands together and bites her lip. Cassandra waits, wondering what she plans to do, but Lavellan pinches her mouth shut and says no more. Cassandra decides to leave it alone and carries on with the rest of her work.

Initially, her thoughts are consumed with Lavellan. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s as simple as that, and Cassandra is comfortable with that truth. But then, she connects all the dots she has in her hand to the Seekers. Specifically, to Caer Oswin. From there on, Cassandra spends her entire day, trying to track down as many scouts to see if anyone has more information on Caer Oswin. The only information she finds is that Caer Oswin is Bann Loren’s domain. One scout tells her that he’s a pious man but more fickle than the wind itself. Cassandra frowns at that new information and combs through the entirety of Skyhold until she finds Scout Lace Harding.

The scout laughs when she first sees Cassandra and calls out, “Congratulations with the victory at Adamant, Seeker!” When Cassandra walks within range, Scout Harding gives her a sly wink and says, “I made sure your little, ah, romantic scene was kept quiet among my scouts. Only three scouts know about it, and they’ve promised to not tell.” She pauses and reconsiders it before she admits, “Although, I think that’s less of a me thing and more about the sheer intimidation of your and Sister Nightingale’s reputation. But we’re all happy for you and Inquisitor Lavellan! Well, at least the people who currently know. But we’ll be waiting with the champagne when you announce it officially.”

“What are you  _ talking _ about?” Cassandra asks, absolutely baffled. But then, she remembers the night at Adamant. She ducks her head with her cheeks flaming scarlet, but she clears her throat and tries to move on by saying, “I’m not here to talk about that.”

“Of course,” Harding says, easing into a more proper stance: shoulders back, feet set apart, chin high and eyes at attention. Leliana taught her scouts well, and Cassandra catches herself nodding approvingly.

Cassandra clears her throat and begins, “Bann Loren at Caer Oswin. Know anything more?” 

“Well, he’s not too popular,” Harding muses. “Why? Do you need any new information on him? I’m sure Sister Nightingale has some more information on that rather than me.”

Cassandra glances around before she mumbles, “I’d like to be the only one responsible for this. Leliana has more important issues to focus on for now. I would prefer this to be more of an independent venture.” Her Order is her business. If she lets Leliana or Lavellan do it for her, then it will lose its meaning. Or at least, that is what she fears. 

“Well, Caer Oswin is Bann Loren’s,” Harding says. “But you know that already. I hadn’t heard much about it, but I did overhear some rumors about new people in Caer Oswin. I don’t know who they are, but I have one report from a scout that says every now and then, foreigners come to visit the castle in full armor and are never seen again.”

“Oh?” Cassandra asks, eyebrows as high as they can go. That’s precisely it. All of the trails go cold at Caer Oswin. If there is something preventing all the Seekers who go there from coming back, then there  _ must _ be something worth investigating. “Thank you, Scout Harding,” she says with as much warmth as she can.

Harding waves her off and says, “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. This is what I’m paid to do. Good luck with whatever you’re doing and let us know how the date and romance thing go!”

Cassandra leaves, and as she takes a shortcut across the wide green, she glances up at the fading sky. Twilight stretches its long swathes of grey across the horizon, and the setting sun bleeds red and orange in the faint traces of blue and lavender that stubbornly remain. In the distance, Cassandra can see the twin moons making their way through the sky, and she knows it’s time to go find Lavellan now. Night covers the sky with every step that Cassandra takes, and when she arrives at Lavellan’s quarters, the sky is completely grey with the black of night darkening it with every passing candlemark.

She knocks on the door: two short raps followed by one softer tap. It’s the same knock that Lavellan always uses for Cassandra’s own door, and Cassandra thinks that it’s fitting to use it again now. Lavellan’s door opens slowly, and the hinges creak. Lavellan stands there with her cheeks rosier than they were in the morning. 

_ “Aneth ara,” _ Lavellan says softly. “I was waiting for you.”

Cassandra comes in and says,  “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“No,” Lavellan says. She shuts the door and fidgets. “I did not think this through very well. Where would you like to sit?” 

Cassandra surveys the room. Lavellan’s formerly unused desk is now piled high with papers and reports. A pot of ink lies on the paper next to a used quill, and beside the desk, Lavellan has letters set out to dry. Lavellan’s bed is immaculate since she never uses it, but the pile of her sleeping furs and bedroll is in disarray. Armor lies scattered across the floor with polish waiting beside it, and tomes upon tomes line the perimeter of the room and on the long sofa.

“The bed?” Cassandra suggests. It’s literally the only thing in the room that looks like it hasn’t been touched.

“Ah, yes, yes, of course,” Lavellan says. Her ears flick back and she twists a lock of her hair between her fingers as she waits for Cassandra to make the first move. Cassandra goes over to sit on the bed and pats the space beside her. Lavellan sways back and forth on her heels before she finally strides over to sit next to Cassandra. 

She hesitates, mouth open but no words, and Cassandra places her hand on Lavellan’s shoulder, hoping to offer some degree of comfort. “You saw the demon, yes?” Lavellan asks.

Cassandra nods and says, “I did.”

“I suppose… I must tell you the truth,” Lavellan says. She bends her head, and her hair falls forward to hide her face. “You have offered me so much about your past, both painful and good. It is only proper that I return the favor.”

“I told you my past willingly,” Cassandra says. Confusion laces her tone, and she has no idea what Lavellan plans to talk about. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

“And I give this part of myself to you willingly,” Lavellan says. She looks up at Cassandra, and through the curtain of her hair, Cassandra sees the shine of unshed tears in Lavellan’s eyes. “But it is sharp and bloody and wrong on all edges,” Lavellan says despairingly. “Will you still take it?”

“Ellana, I want you to know that I will be there for you,” Cassandra says. This is a promise that she made once to herself, and it will be a promise that she will keep no matter what. “I will support you and be  _ there for you.” _

“Ah,  _ vhenan,  _ you make it sound so easy, “ Lavellan whispers. She lifts her head up and sweeps her hair back behind her pointed ears. “Once upon a time, there was a Dalish clan that lived in the plains of the Free Marches,” Lavellan begins. “There was a girl from Clan Istimaethoriel who fell in love with a man from Clan Lavellan. The two bonded and had a daughter. That daughter loved a man from Clan Tillahnnen, and he came to Clan Lavellan to live with his bonded partner. They were my parents and my grandparents, blood of my blood of my blood.” Lavellan’s voice falls into an easy cadence as she tells her story, and Cassandra finds herself getting lost in the rhythmic music of Lavellan’s voice.

Lavellan pauses before she taps her chest right where her heart is. “Then, the daughter of Clan Lavellan had twins that shared a soul between them,” she sighs. “They called it a blessing and asked the gods to guide their paths. They were inseparable and wandered the fields underneath the open skies. They learned how to walk and run and hunt together, and when one received her magic, the other received a trace of it as well.”

“You and your brother,” Cassandra breathes out. 

“Yes,” Lavellan confirms. “My brother and I.”

Cassandra thinks about Mahanon and all the arrows he shoots. He never misses, and somehow, all of his shots make their enemies prime targets for various spells. Once, his arrow landed on a red templar just before it exploded into flame. She always thought it came with being twins. If Mahanon marked an enemy with an arrow, then Ellana would be able to land a spell on it. But now, she re-evaluates all these different shots and asks, “Then, are all the arrows your brother shoots…?”

“My brother breathes a blessing into each arrow and wraps the stray threads of magic leftover in the air around them,” Ellana says. “He would not be called a mage by  _ shemlen _ definition, but he knows it like I do.” She traces something on the back of her hand and lapses into a short silence. Cassandra squints her eyes at it, trying to decipher what Ellana is writing. 

But Ellana sighs and continues, “We were happy. Then, we strayed too far from the camp. Our parents and our grandparents warned us not to go out too far, but we lost track of time and distance. Instead of finding a lost halla as we originally intended, we found a group of templars who were hunting down an apostate. They were happy to settle on us instead.”

Cassandra’s blood runs cold. That did not bode well.

“They chained us down and laughed at us. Some tried to pluck at my clothing, but they were stopped by older templars who thought that was crossing a line,” Ellana says, her tone flat and hard. Her eyes glitter and reflect light like dim lanterns on the edge of night, but Cassandra recognizes the fury in them. Ellana barks out a short, bitter laugh before she says, “Apparently, it is alright to do that with mages when they are older. But not for my age. Not for children.”

Cassandra doesn’t want to hear any more; she knows how this story will end. Still, she can’t stop herself from leaning in closer to hear Ellana’s hushed voice. Ellana clenches her fist, and her voice shakes as she says, “My  _ mamae _ found us with a tracking spell and tried to get us to safety. She told us to run without looking back, but I turned back. I failed to take advantage of the opportunity she gave us. Then, my  _ papae _ tried to save us too, but even then, we could not get away fast enough.” She shakes her head, and the first tear slides down her cheek. 

“My brother, they threw embers at him and laughed when he yelped from the pain. They pinched my ears until one left a cut on my ear with his sharp gauntlets,” she recounts. At first, Cassandra thinks the shake in Ellana’s voice is from sadness, but now, she realizes that it’s rage, barely restrained. Her voice is brittle, just like how it sounded at Halamshiral, and she says, “Then, they… They tore my mother’s clothes with my father watching. That is when he snapped, when he finally gave in and became an abomination to free us. He broke our chains, and we… We could have left. We could have left and never looked back.”

Ellana slumps and leans on Cassandra with all of her body weight. “But I suppose my curse is to always look back,” she says. She reaches out to trace out more symbols on Cassandra’s thigh and whispers, “I do not listen and stay. Even at the Conclave, I looked back and lingered, and at Haven and Adamant and Halamshiral. But during that time, I stayed and watched the demon overwhelm him. It lashed out at my mother. So much blood. So much.”

Dread builds at the bottom of Cassandra’s heart, and she does not want to think about what Ellana has endured. Now, Ellana crawls into Cassandra’s lap and buries her face in the crook of Cassandra’s neck. She quietly sobs, and Cassandra can feel each and every heave of grief in Ellana’s chest. “I killed them,” Ellana confesses. “My  _ papae _ , my  _ mamae, _ all those templars. I killed them,  _ vhenan. _ That is what the demon used to taunt me. That is what I have done. This is the truth.”

Ellana quiets and although she makes no more sound, Cassandra can still feel the way her chest trembles with the effort of holding back the sobs. Cassandra rubs soothing circles on Ellana’s back. She had no idea Ellana held so much pain and grief inside of her, and she feels like her heart is being torn open. 

Part of her feels like she should have known. Ellana had not kept her dislike of the Chantry a secret. She flinched away from every templar and refused to go to Therinfal Redoubt. She spoke about blood and rage and fire before, and Cassandra remembers their night at Crestwood. Lavellan looked miserable and guilty and  _ haunted  _ when Cassandra told her about Anthony’s death.

_ “I know. It consumes you until you feel like you are being burned alive. The grief and the anger stays with you, haunts you in your dreams, but the bodies, the people, they never come back. And if you do act on that anger, the blood on your hands never seems to wash away.”  _

“Ellana,” Cassandra says as she pushes Ellana away from her chest and grips Ellana’s shoulders tightly. She gazes into Ellana’s watery eyes and says, “I’ve told you before, you don’t have to force yourself to tell me.”

“No, I am telling you this willingly,” Ellana says, exhaling out and trying to ground herself. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and continues, “I killed my father to end his misery. I killed all the templars, even those that tried to escape. They would have hunted my clan down if they returned back to their Circle. And… My mother was barely alive. She would not have lasted the night with her injuries. I killed her to end her suffering. My brother and I returned to the clan covered in red.” 

She gazes out and stares at the twin moons hanging over the sky. With another deep breath, she shuts her eyes and says, “Do you remember what we talked about on that night in Crestwood? I am glad that you went to the Seekers,  _ vhenan. _ No matter how the years pass and no matter how much your vengeance mattered, the blood remains on your hands. The stains never wash out, and I will always be the person who slaughtered those templars. My hands will remain the hands that killed my mother and my father.” 

She glances down at her hands and folds them in her lap. “I have killed more people now,” she breathes out. “Venatori, red templars, bandits, all these people who we call enemies. I know that is what war demands from us, but I will always remember the first lives I took.” She twists her fingers together so tightly that the edges where her fingers meet turn white. “That is who I am, Cassandra,” she confesses. “I would not be angry if you were… Disappointed with me. I would understand.”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra asks. She stares at Ellana blankly as Ellana tries to readjust her position on Cassandra’s lap.

“If you do not wish to associate with me any longer,” Ellana says, almost faltering in the middle. “I would understand.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No,” Cassandra repeats flatly. “No means no. I… I have a hard time seeing you as a person who did what you said you did, but I know you.”

_ “Vhenan, _ I—” Ellana tries to say, but Cassandra holds up a hand to stop her. 

“Please, listen to me. I know the rage you must have felt,” Cassandra says. “I felt the same thing too when they killed Anthony in front of me. I understand. I also know that you are unbelievably  _ kind. _ Was there any way to save your parents?”

“No, but—”

“Then that is that,” Cassandra says with a sense of finality. “I have seen abominations before. There’s no way to get the person back unless the demon leaves willingly, and even then, I have never seen any mage return completely to normal.” She cups Ellana’s cheeks in her hands and strokes the pads of her thumbs over the vallaslin. “We all do things that we regret, but we must acknowledge our mistakes, learn from them, and live on.”

“Cassandra,” Ellana says. Her voice is barely audible, barely above a whisper, but Cassandra hears her name on Ellana’s tongue clear as day.

I know you,” Cassandra says, tone as sure as iron. “You are Lavellan, you are Ellana, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, First of Clan Lavellan, and…” She steels her nerves — draws them close and tight under her own control, stronger than silverite — and finishes, “And First to my heart.”

Ellana inhales sharply: a short, quick sound that Cassandra doesn’t miss. With her eyes wet and shining, she slips out of Cassandra’s hold and throws her arms around Cassandra. Ellana embraces her tightly, and Cassandra dares to lay a soft kiss on Ellana’s head and whisper, “And those are my true feelings. I will not leave you. Unless… Unless you wish me to. Then I will do whatever you ask of me.”

“No,” Ellana says. Her reply is fierce despite being muffled by Cassandra’s shoulder. “Never.” She pulls back and Cassandra wipes a tear away from Ellana’s cheek. Ellana presses her lips in a thin line and scans Cassandra’s face. Cassandra can’t tell what she’s looking for, but Ellana asks in a soft, tremulous voice, “Is that truly what you feel?”

“It is,” Cassandra confirms.

“Ah.” Ellana closes her eyes and asks, “How long have you felt this way?”

Cassandra studies Ellana’s face and wipes another tear. “I don’t actually know,” she admits. “I’ve admired you for a long time. You are a wonderful friend, kind and lovely and brilliant, and I cared about you. At first, it was for selfish reasons. If you died, we would have no way of closing the Breach. But then, I got to know you more and…” Cassandra has to clear her throat here, trying to buy another moment of hesitation before she plunges into her confession. “I liked you. I enjoyed your company. Then, after Haven, I realized…” Cassandra reaches for Ellana’s hand and lays a soft kiss on the back of her hand before she says, “I realized that I wouldn’t be able to live without you. I would have been devastated if you didn’t survive.”

Ellana opens her eyes again and clasps Cassandra’s other hand. “Ah, I am such a fool,” she laughs as more tears roll down her cheeks. This time, Cassandra thinks they’re not tears of sorrow but tears of happiness: bittersweet but not like grief at all.

“What?” Cassandra asks blankly.

Ellana tugs Cassandra’s gloves off. Then, she brings Cassandra’s other hand to her lips and kisses the inside of Cassandra’s wrist as if she were mimicking Cassandra’s earlier gesture. “I loved you since Redcliffe,” she says. “And I continued to love you but in secret. I first thought that you were only interested in men, and then, I thought you were only interested in being friends.” She shakes her head ruefully and laughs again. “It seems like we were both lovesick fools. Perhaps this is why Mahanon always made fun of me.”

“No. That can’t be possible,” Cassandra breathes out. Her heart feels like it’s going to either collapse in her chest or beat so fast that it bursts out of her ribs. Possibly both. She’s not sure. None of her favorite erotic literature discussed anything like this. If she went by those guidelines, she was probably supposed to fuck Ellana right around now. However, she’s so bewildered and shocked that she forgets all about those and focuses solely on Ellana.

“It is true,” she says with a shrug. “I have loved you for a very long time now.” Ellana lifts her Anchored hand out of Cassandra’s grasp to trace the edge of Cassandra’s lips. “I almost kissed you so many times before today. At Halamshiral, I thought you were going to kiss me, so I waited. When you did not make a move, I thought that was confirmation of your lack of interest in me as a romantic partner. Just friends, nothing more and nothing less.” Her gaze lowers to Cassandra’s lips before she drags them back up to meet Cassandra’s gaze. “Would you mind if I kissed you now?” she asks.

Cassandra’s breath catches in her throat, and she’s too tongue-tied to answer. So, she settles for a nod. Ellana’s eyes brighten when she sees the small motion, and she moves to straddle Cassandra’s lap. Cassandra flutters her eyes shut and then, Ellana kisses her. It’s a soft, gentle thing, and Cassandra angles her head to allow her better access. Ellana pulls back for a breath and laughs against Cassandra’s lips.  _ “Ar lath ma, vhenan,” _ she says before she kisses Cassandra again. This time, she nips at Cassandra’s lower lip and wins herself a soft moan. Ellana uses that as an opportunity to deepen the kiss and grinds down in Cassandra’s lap. Her hands wander over Cassandra’s body, and Cassandra explores Ellana’s body in turn. She sweeps her hands down the lines of Ellana’s body, marveling at the way she moves and breathes and feels so  _ warm. _ This is leagues different than the illusion in the Fade, and she relishes in the fact that this is real and genuine and  _ warm. _

Ellana pulls away and dots kisses all over Cassandra’s face: on her nose, on her forehead, on her cheeks, and down her lips. She makes a small noise of disapproval when she can’t unlatch Cassandra’s breastplate properly. Her hands stop moving and she asks, “Are you willing to continue or would you like to wait? I am fine with either.”

Cassandra responds by unbuttoning Ellana’s shirt. She can’t see Ellana’s face, but she’s sure that a wicked smile is curving its way across Ellana’s lips. Cassandra pushes the fabric aside and moves in to give a few kisses of her own. Ellana giggles when Cassandra’s lips brush over a ticklish spot. She allows Cassandra to explore on her own, but after a few moments, she pushes Cassandra so that she lies flat on the bed. Ellana moves up, still straddling Cassandra’s body, and starts working on the latches. “This is harder than I remember it being,” she murmurs. 

“I was helping you the last time you tried,” Cassandra points out. 

Ellana clicks her tongue with the same disapproval. “Then, we will have to practice this over and over again until I am better at removing this armor,” she says. “Do you have a concern with this?” She punctuates the question by pressing a kiss to Cassandra’s armor. Cassandra can’t feel it, but she still flushes deep red at Ellana’s words. Cassandra can’t help but notice how thoroughly endearing Ellana looks. She’s sitting on top of Cassandra, biting her lip, as she concentrates on Cassandra’s vambraces and pauldrons. Cassandra moves her limbs obligingly, but eventually, Ellana manages.

The rest of the night goes very much as how it started. Cassandra takes her time exploring Ellana’s body. She’s familiar with part of it from all the nights camping out in the wilderness on various missions and objectives. Ellana was relatively comfortable with nudity and never bothered to hide herself when changing clothes within their tent. Cassandra also remembers that one time where they went bathing in some natural hot springs together or when they had to share a room at a creaky tavern in some Fereldan backwater. But there are so many new aspects and facets to Ellana that Cassandra delights in learning. 

She falls asleep in Ellana’s bed, bare under Ellana’s touch, and she dreams to the rhythm of their heartbeats. In the few hazy moments before full sleep, Cassandra thinks that their hearts are in time, moving to their own rhythm, and she kisses Ellana one last time.

Waking up beside Ellana isn’t a new experience, but it’s new in that Cassandra is fully nude when she wakes up. The soft morning of the dawn streams in through the numerous balconies, and the clear colors of the mountain sky greet her. Cassandra stretches her arms, working out the kinks in her back, and glances back at Ellana. She looks peaceful, and in the morning light, Cassandra can see all of Ellana in perfect clarity. There are new scars on her body. Cassandra counts them and remembers each one. One was a long burn scar from a dragon while another was a templar’s sword aimed for Cassandra instead. One was a small nick from a knife along the edge of Ellana’s thumb when she was making quills for Varric and Josephine. The most recent ones are still red — angry welts that mar Ellana’s skin — and Cassandra considers them. Several from demons in the raw Fade and several from twisted, broken Wardens beyond saving. Cassandra bends her head down to kiss each and every one of Ellana’s scars. They mark her as surely as her vallaslin do. They are a record of her life, and they mark her as living, fighting,  _ surviving. _ This is Ellana of Clan Lavellan, stripped down to her basic core, and Cassandra finds that she loves Ellana even more for it. 

Ellana blearily opens her eyes after the first few kisses, and she doesn’t react when Cassandra kisses another. But when Cassandra moves over for the next kiss, her hand shoots out to grab Cassandra’s wrist. Her eyes dilate, trying to assess the new movement for any danger, but when she focuses on Cassandra completely, Ellana huffs out a small chuckle. She rubs the sleep away from her eyes and says,  _ “On dhea, vhenan. _ And it is a very good morning if I get to wake up to this.”

Ellana gets up and stretches as well. Cassandra admires the view: long, lean lines made after years of hunting and surviving. Ellana swings her legs out of bed and bends down to retrieve her clothing, still tossed carelessly aside from last night. Cassandra moves to do the same but freezes when she sees her reflection in the mirror propped up by Ellana’s wardrobe. She can see her muscles and her scars — marks of her own life as well — but she fixates on the hickeys Ellana left scattered all over her body. They bloom a mottled purple on her skin. All of them have been carefully placed away from her neckline, but they’re still there for Cassandra to see. 

Ellana pads up to her and watches Cassandra twist around to see the extent of last night’s experience. “If you would like, you can see the marks that you made on me,” she offers. She turns to show Cassandra her back. “You left these lovely scratches on me. I think the marks are still there.” Sure enough, they’re there in thin, red lines, but they’re mostly faded. Ellana glances back at Cassandra and says frankly, “I do not mind it. It simply means that you enjoyed it.” She steps closer and brushes her fingertips over each hickey. Her touch is so light that she can barely feel it, and Cassandra can feel Ellana’s breath on her shoulder. 

Ellana hesitates before she pulls away. “We should get ready. There is much to be done.”

Cassandra nods and follows Ellana to the small washbasin in the corner. Ellana makes water with a snap of her hands and a flicker of fire and ice. They brush their teeth and wash their face, but when Cassandra bends down to retrieve the rest of her clothes, she can feel Ellana’s lingering gaze. Ellana moves closer and embraces Cassandra from behind, body pressed flat to Cassandra’s own. “You just said that we should get ready,” Cassandra says.

“I know,” Ellana says, almost petulantly. “But I recently remembered that I am the Inquisitor and that makes me my own ‘boss’ as the Iron Bull puts it. And if I am my own boss, then I can determine when we start working. And we are going to start working one hour later.”

“One hour?!”

“Possibly sooner. I am nothing if not talented with my fingers.”

Eventually, they make their way out of Ellana’s quarters, wearing all of their clothes and laughing all the way down the stairs. Cassandra now smells like Ellana’s soap, and the light herbal scent on her skin is comforting. When Ellana pushes the door open to head out to the rest of Skyhold, they both see their friends waiting for them.

“Alright, pop the corks!” Varric calls out. 

To their sides, a number of the Bull’s Chargers and Sera’s Red Jennies pop open canisters of confetti. Multi-colored bits of paper fall over them, and Cassandra has to blink hard to get a few off her eyelashes. Dorian sweeps his hand out, and his black cloak flutters in the wake of his magic. His magic sings out and uncorks a whole row of bottles on a small table in front of him. They bubble over, and Cassandra squints at them. They look like champagne, but the scent is too sweet. Sparkling cider, perhaps.

“Or you know, you probably already got your own cork popped,” Bull laughs. He hoists Sera up who waves a large banner. It’s clearly an Inquisition banner, but someone — likely Sera — has painted a crudely drawn likeness of Ellana and Cassandra on it with red paint.

Beside Cassandra, Ellana laughs and laughs and laughs. Cassandra, however, scans the group. Leliana raises a glass to her, and Josephine fills it with sparkling cider. Vivienne is beside Josephine, and for once, she seems to be restraining a small, genuine, smile rather than the one she wears like a mask. Solas stands next to Varric, murmuring something under his breath, and the dwarf is furiously scribbling down details on a small notepad. Cole’s large hat bobs beside Krem who points out Sera’s banner to Cole. Blackwall is there, awkwardly holding a wooden sign that has roses carved into it. Cullen helps support the other side of the wooden sign. Dorian sweeps his other arm out and sprays a stream of golden sparks over them. He appears absolutely delighted with himself. Mahanon gives her the middle finger before he makes a circle with his other hand and sticks his middle finger through the circle, all with a complete deadpan expression. Then, he relents and gives her a small smile and a nod. Even Scout Lace Harding is there to give them a thumbs-up and a toothy grin.

“Alright,” Cassandra finally sighs. “Whose idea was this?” Everyone glances over to Iron Bull and his Chargers, and Cassandra stifles a groan. She really should’ve been expecting this at some point. 

Ellana squeezes Cassandra’s hand and says,  _ “Ma serannas,  _ Bull. I appreciate the gesture. Where did you get all of this?”

“I requisitioned it a while ago,” Bull says. He jerks his thumb over to Josephine. “And she flagged our requisition as high priority.” 

Josephine blushes and stammers out, “I simply believed that the Chargers needed their requisitions to be fulfilled faster whether it be materials to upgrade their armor or additional… Food items. Yes.”

“Never let it be said that the Inquisition does not treat their people with as much care and many resources as it can,” Vivienne tartly adds. She gestures over to the bottles and Dorian. “Although, I will say that some of the presentation factor could have been improved.”   


Dorian bristles at Vivienne’s words and snaps, “I wore my  _ finest _ cloak for this! Hand-sewn in Minrathous by the most expensive and skilled tailor in Aureum Square! No one in Orlais could rival this kind of quality.”

“That is because the quality of your measly Tevinter artisans is far below that of Orlais,” Vivienne says. Her lips widen into a smile that reveals the points of her teeth, and Cassandra can hear Ellana choking back another laugh. 

She lets go of Cassandra’s hand to bound forward and tackle Bull into a large hug. Ellana goes around, hugging each and every person that gathers around them. Cassandra glances to the side and sees that some of the mages, scouts, and soldiers have stopped to see the spectacle. Some of them whoop and flash Cassandra a thumbs-up, just like Scout Harding. 

Varric ambles over to nudge Cassandra. “Glad you finally got down to business with this entire thing,” he says. “It was excruciatingly painful to watch both of you fumble around and avoid the topic. Now, I can write back to Hawke and tell her that you two finally got down with each other.” He gestures with his notepad over to Ellana. “So, do you mind telling me some more details? Was there any sweeping off the feet involved? Any particular details you want me to know? A writer has to have good details to make a good book.”

Cassandra smacks him on the shoulder and says, “Do not even think about writing smutty literature about Ellana and me. Work on  _ Swords and Shields _ instead.” She pauses. “But if you are going to write smutty literature, let me read the draft before publishing. I… Would like to see it. To investigate. You know. If it meets proper standards. You know.” 

“Alright, alright, whatever you say, Seeker,” Varric laughs. 

Cassandra turns her attention back onto Ellana. She can’t resist the soft smile that comes when she sees Ellana and her sheer, infectious joy that spreads throughout the group. Ellana extricates herself from the throng of people around her and pads her way up to Cassandra. She reaches out to hold Cassandra’s hands and says, “This is lovely. I did not know we were that obvious about it.”

“You were, and it was disgustingly sweet,” Dorian calls out behind Ellana.

Mahanon adds, “Both of you were fools about it.”

Ellana chuckles and settles her Anchored hand right above Cassandra’s heart. “For what it is worth,” she says.  _ “Vhenan _ means ‘heart.’  _ Ma’lath, _ my love,  _ ma’vhen’an’ara, _ my heart’s desire.  _ Ar lath ma.” _ She moves her hand up to tug Cassandra down by her breastplate and kisses her, all teeth and tongue and soft warmth. “I love you,” she whispers against Cassandra's lips.  _ “Ar lath ma.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, i will entirely admit that the confetti scene may be slightly ooc, but i'm definitely throwing a confetti party after that. it only took me 70k-ish words to get to a solid confession. also?? lavellan exudes big top energy. i don't make the rules; it's just like that.
> 
> hope you enjoyed the new chapter + let me know what your thoughts are in the comments! <3 <3 <3


	11. rising on the high tide

Cassandra finds herself returning to Ellana’s quarters at night rather than returning to her own room. Ellana takes it in stride and starts sleeping in her bed beside Cassandra rather than sleeping in her own pile of furs. Over the days, they wordlessly accommodate each other. Cassandra starts putting her spare clothes and gear in Ellana’s wardrobe. Ellana doesn’t keep too many clothes in there anyways; most of the clothes were requisitioned either by Josephine or Vivienne. But now, beside a rack of gleaming Orlesian dresses that Ellana never wears, Cassandra keeps her blouses and trousers. Ellana sweeps her papers off her desk and settles into her pile of sleeping furs to read and write reports. When Cassandra protests, Ellana insists that she’s never liked sitting down at a desk. Cassandra has to admit that’s true enough and finally agrees to use the desk when she needs to.

The thing that Cassandra finds herself appreciating the most, however, is waking up beside Ellana. Ellana likes to sleep on her side, arm thrown over Cassandra, and nestles in close. Cassandra wakes up, muzzy and groggy, but she can’t hold back the smile that creeps across her face when she sees Ellana holding her hand or Ellana curling in closer to Cassandra's side. 

But Cassandra also worries. Sometimes, she wakes up to see Ellana hunched over her crackling palm, biting back sounds of pain. This is another one of those times. 

She dreams of Nevarra — the granite walls of Mortalitasi crypts, the heavy scent of her uncle’s incense burning low at dusk — and wakes up to hear a soft yelp of pain. The warmth by her side pulls away, and Cassandra turns on her side instinctively, following the warmth. She opens her eyes and blinks away the remaining sleep to see Ellana hissing with pain. Cassandra gets up with a jolt, alarm running through her veins. 

Ellana glances back at her, eyes cat-like and gleaming in the darkness, and she hurries to say, “I am sorry for waking you,  _ vhenan, _ go back to sleep.”

“What do you mean? No, I’m fine,” Cassandra says. She reaches out for Ellana’s hands. “But you're not fine. What’s wrong?” 

Ellana reluctantly allows Cassandra to pull her closer, and Cassandra curls her hands around Ellana’s slim wrists. The Anchor seethes over Ellana’s palm, churning with so much chaotic magic, and it rattles Cassandra’s senses. She tries to probe it again, but she’s easily overwhelmed. Never in the history of her career had she ever come across something so violent as this. Ellana always makes it look neat and controlled in her hands, sewing up rifts with a skill that has only grown since her first try. But now, it looks like a maelstrom of the Fade trapped within the confines of her mortal body. Through the thin skin of Ellana’s wrist, Cassandra can see the outlines of Ellana’s veins and arteries gleaming with the same kind of magic: a glimmering, inhuman green.

The Anchor is slowly becoming part of Ellana. Cassandra fears that it might be destroying Ellana as it integrates itself with her. Cassandra looks up at Ellana, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you tell me that it hurt?” she says aghast.

Ellana shuts her eyes and exhales through clenched teeth. The Anchor spits out sparks of magic that burn Cassandra’s skin, and Cassandra jumps. “I did not want to worry you,” Ellana grits out, pain edging her voice. “And I did not know it would become, that it would turn out like this. I had it under control. I had it. I  _ had _ it.” Cassandra gives Ellana a withering glare until Ellana finally relents and admits, “Until now.”

“Is that the truth?” Cassandra wonders. She peers at Ellana and sees the telltale mask start to settle over her expression. Cassandra reaches out to caress Ellana’s cheek, as if that would help her pull back the mask that threatens to bury her lover’s thoughts and feelings. It scares Cassandra sometimes. How Ellana manages to hide so much. Cassandra thinks Ellana is like a cool, still pond sometimes — always hiding something underneath a polished surface — and all that Cassandra wants to do is to know Ellana, to hold her and to tell her that she loves her and to let her know that she didn’t have to hide when she was with Cassandra. It hurts to see that mask, but Cassandra holds out her hopes. A moment passes, and Cassandra can feel Ellana stiffen under her touch. But then, Ellana leans in closer to Cassandra’s touch and opens her eyes. Cassandra searches for a clue, a hint, _something_ more than silence, in Ellana's gaze. With a sinking heart, Cassandra wonders if the edges of Ellana's dark eyes were always a shade of green. But no matter what Ellana's original eye color was, she looks vulnerable now. She wavers for only a moment before she reaches over to bury her face in the crook of Cassandra’s shoulder. 

“No,” Ellana admits. Her voice sounds muffled, and the sound of the crackling Anchor almost drowns the sound of her voice out. “The Anchor feels like the sea at times. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows, just like the sea. Perhaps today is like the high tide while the days before, it was at low tide.”

Tides. Cassandra gazes at the Anchor and thinks about the Waking Sea and the tempests that ravaged her ship when she traveled to Ferelden. Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen were with her on the voyage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She never could’ve imagined the extent to which her initial plan unfolded all the way here to Ellana’s side. Cassandra reaches out to brush her thumb over the Anchor, and out of curiosity, she reaches out to grasp at the magic lying in Ellana’s blood.

Immediately, Cassandra's senses are overwhelmed with a churning kind of thrumming song. The sensation rushes into her mind and electrifies her veins with adrenaline before Ellana yanks her magic back on the other end. The tide of magic recedes, and Cassandra looks up at Ellana’s horrified expression. However, her face suffuses with pain as she holds back her magic. Cassandra reaches out with her Seeker senses, trying to cast it like Ellana does — a wide, sweeping net that settles over their shoulders — and clasping Ellana’s Anchored hand again. The collision between her powers and Ellana’s mana forms a glittering web around them. Ellana’s hand slackens and relaxes in Cassandra’s grip, and Cassandra looks up to see Ellana gazing around them with awe. Green light fractures against silver, and the pain bleeds out of Ellana. 

She slumps against Cassandra’s chest and whispers, “You take the magic away. Like templars but without the lyrium.”

“Would you like me to stop?” Cassandra hurries to ask. She knows Ellana’s history with templars; she never wants to repress Ellana like that ever in her entire life. But this is the best solution she can think of. The only solution other than to chop the damn thing off which is an  _unacceptable_ solution.

Ellana shakes her head as she gazes at the web. She reaches out with her unmarked hand and swirls the magic around with her index finger. The threads of magic obey her motions and slowly spin around them. Cassandra thinks it looks like some great globe, spiralling around them in green and silver. “You make things quiet for a while,” she finally says. “The Anchor sings sometimes, but now, at high tide, that song turns into screams. The sounds of war.”

“Really?” Cassandra breathes out.

Ellana shrugs. “Perhaps they are not screams,” she says. “But I hear them in my dreams sometimes. You make them quiet, make them settle down again.” She tilts her head up and Cassandra can see traces of a smile dancing across Ellana’s lips. “You push the tides back,  _ vhenan, _ and that is more than I could ever ask of you.”

They hold each other’s hands like lifelines, and in a way, Cassandra supposes that it is. Ellana nestles in close, but Cassandra finds that she can’t fall asleep again. Instead, she settles for rubbing circles on the back of Ellana’s hand with the pad of her thumb. It’s a gesture that Ellana frequently does to settle Cassandra’s nerves, and she just wants to reciprocate the same gesture. 

They ease into a quiet lull, and a thought flickers across Cassandra’s mind. She latches onto the idea and quietly asks, “What were you going to tell me that night in Haven?”

“Mmm?” Ellana says. She shifts beside Cassandra and asks, “What do you mean?”

“When you came to my room with tea and told me about what really happened at Redcliffe,” Cassandra clarifies. 

“Oh.” The sound leaves Ellana’s lips in a short, punctuated breath, and Ellana doesn’t move or say another word.

Cassandra leans in closer and asks again, “So, what was it?” Now, her curiosity is peaked, and she peers at Ellana’s face.

Ellana avoids Cassandra’s gaze and mumbles, “I… You… You told me…” She clears her throat and looks up at Cassandra. “You told me that you could have loved me.”

Now, it’s Cassandra’s turn to let out a soft “Oh.”

Ellana’s brow creases in a frown and she murmurs, “I thought it would be best to not tell you. I feared that it was a result of the world and how everything turned out in that timeline instead of you yourself.” She shakes her head. “Red lyrium changes you, twists you up into knots that you never could have believed. I did not want to entertain a fantasy or a twisted hope.”

Cassandra stares at Ellana who’s still frowning. Ellana stares at some illimitable point in the distance, beyond their room and in the dark night sky. The shimmering strands of magic around them start to dim, and the Anchor grows quiet. It never falls to complete silence — the Anchor still hums — but Cassandra bends her head and taps Ellana’s chest right over where her heart lies.

“I suppose that future me was right. I could have loved you. I  _ do _ love you,” she says with as much sincerity as she can. 

Ellana reaches up to clasp Cassandra’s hand over her heart and follows the same gesture. Three taps over Cassandra’s own heart with the same rhythm of her heartbeat. Ellana smiles, sad and sweet, and says, “And I love you too,  _ ma’lath.” _

The next morning, Cassandra wakes up to see Ellana already up and dressed. That’s exceptionally rare for Ellana who prefers to remain, wrapped up in her blankets, and dream on for as long as she can. Cassandra wonders if another nightmare or the Anchor woke Ellana up again. However, Ellana turns around with a radiant smile when she hears Cassandra stir. She holds up a package in her hands and hurries over to Cassandra’s side. “Here, here,” she says as she presses the package in Cassandra’s hands.

“What is this?” Cassandra blearily asks. She undoes the knot on the package’s binding, and the twine and paper fall away to reveal a book.

Ellana beams and says, “It is a book.”

“I know that,” Cassandra says. The book falls out of the package face down, so Cassandra flips it up to see a familiar etched drawing on the book’s leather cover.  “No. No, you have to be joking,” she breathes out.

Ellana blinks at her and says with hesitation, “What would I have to joke about,  _ vhenan?” _

“This is a copy of  _ Swords and Shields, _ but i-it’s the newest chapter!” Cassandra yelps. “Varric said he was putting the series on hiatus!” She flips through the book, now fully awake, and sees new chapter titles that she’s never read before. 

Ellana gives her a wink. “Well, it seems as though he is writing more, and that is good because you like them, yes?” she laughs. “This is a good thing.” She sits down beside Cassandra and kicks her heels against the bed as she waits for Cassandra.

Cassandra scans through the words before she looks up at Ellana with wide eyes. “Did you have anything to do with it?” she asks suspiciously.

“Of course not,  _ ma’lath,” _ Ellana says with round, innocent eyes. “Who do you think I am?”

Cassandra snorts at that and moves out of bed. She carefully places the book on the bedside table and stretches her arms. Mid-yawn, she says, “The Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, one of the most influential leaders in Thedas, and…” She trails off to slip her underclothes back on, and now, she mumbles more quietly, “And my girlfriend who gives too many gifts for her own good.”

Her words make Ellana smile brighter than the morning sun, and she chirps, “I do not need the other titles. I would settle for girlfriend, and that would be fine with me. Lover, paramour, wife, I do not mind.” She winks at Cassandra. “As for the others? Name someone else the Herald.”

Cassandra pads towards the basin to brush her teeth and snorts, “We can’t do that.”

“I know, but I like to dream sometimes,” Ellana sighs. She stands up, and although she keeps her smile brightly intact, Cassandra notices the way she winces when she straightens up. Ellana stretches, and the fabric of her shirt lifts up to reveal the number of burns and bruises she’s collected over the past couple of weeks. Cassandra presses her lips thinly together when Ellana turns as she stretches, revealing one long, puckered scar. Cassandra knows that the scar stretches up near Ellana’s shoulders. The result of a Templar’s blade that Cassandra couldn’t block in time. But Cassandra turns her attention back to the basin. She has similar scars on her own skin too — a matching set — and when she moves too quickly, some of the bruises ache too much.

Ellana steps up beside her and leans heavily against the rim of the basin and Cassandra’s waist, almost using her entire body weight. With a tap of her slender finger, ice crackles and rises in the basin. Then, Ellana lazily swirls her finger, and fire answers her beck and call to melt the ice into water. “Being Herald of Andraste is a bother,” she grumpily says as she watches the water fill up. “People expect you to give out blessings like Josephine gives out candy.”

“Do you really do that?” Cassandra wonders.

Ellana gives her a cheeky smile and kisses Cassandra’s shoulder which is the closest place she can reach while she fills the basin up with water. “I say Dalish blessings under my breath in elvhen and call it good enough,” she laughs. “I have not received a single complaint about it yet. Blessings are blessings, regardless of who they come from. I give them what they ask for.”

The rest of the day proceeds as usual. Ellana makes her morning rounds, checking in on every part of Skyhold. Cassandra starts morning training with Cullen, but every time she spots Ellana bouncing past the training ring, a smile creeps over her face. It’s never enough time for any recruit or even Cullen to use it as an opportunity, but Cullen’s knowing grin makes Cassandra flush a brighter red. 

After training, Cassandra pores through her notes and documents once more before she solidifies a solid plan. If Ellana will allow her, Cassandra plans to form a squad and stake out Caer Oswin. Perhaps she’ll be able to find more clues to the locations of her brothers and sisters in arms, or perhaps, they will all be there. Cassandra doesn’t really know what to do if she finds them there though. Maybe an invitation to the Inquisition would suffice? She knows that the Lord Seeker denounced Ellana and the Inquisition, but Cassandra holds out the hope that at least one or two of them might be willing to go back wither.

Cassandra finds herself hoping far too much recently. It sets her on edge, makes her wonder when her hopes will fall too short, makes her constantly estimate where the boundaries of her hopes and the edges of reality intersect. But she hopes. Cassandra laughs softly to herself and thinks that it might be a side-effect of being with Ellana for so long. It’s not a bad change, all things considered, and Cassandra thinks that hope tastes sweeter and richer than fear ever did.

She stretches her arms out and yawns before she sets down her documents. She grabs a light cloak — Skyhold is getting colder and colder — and leaves as she tosses it around her shoulders. The cloak flutters and flaps in the high winds that batter Skyhold, and she wanders around the fortress. She finally finds Ellana in the library on the second floor, clutching parchment in her hands and staring vacantly out into the distance. 

“Ellana?” Cassandra calls out. 

Ellana does not move.

Cassandra moves closer and sees that Ellana has a white-knuckled grip on the parchment in her hand. “Ellana?” she tries again when she’s directly by Ellana’s side.

Now, Ellana jolts and casts a flickering gaze towards Cassandra. Recognition blooms in her eyes, and a soft flush scatters across her cheeks. “Oh, vhenan!” she says. “I am sorry, I did not hear you.” 

“Is something wrong?” Cassandra wonders. Ellana doesn’t look inherently different: no new wounds, no torn scars. Only the parchment. When Cassandra squints at the parchment, she spies only some charred edges and soot stained across the back. However, that's it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Ellana quickly shakes her head and asks, “Did you need something?” 

“Ah, well, yes,” Cassandra says. After a thought, she follows up and says, “No. No. Well, no, yes. Yes.” She clears her throat and settles on a decision. “Yes, if you are not busy.”

Ellana hurriedly nods and burns the parchment in her hands. Soot and ash scatter over her lap, coloring the black of her breeches with light grey. “Of course, vhenan. I always have time for you.”

Cassandra eyes Ellana suspiciously. However, she says, “Do you remember how I asked you to help me hunt down the remaining targets on the Seekers’ list?” 

Ellana brushes the soot off and says, “Yes, I was happy to help. They were dangers to both your people and mine.” She almost looks relieved for the change in subject, but Cassandra can't imagine why.

Cassandra sighs, “I have been tracking down the remnants of my Order. There are no Seekers among the red templars, not in any group that we’ve attacked, scouted, or checked. I think… I think I’ve found where they’re disappearing.” 

Now, Ellana’s gaze hones in bright and sharp on Cassandra’s countenance, and her tone is brisk and easy as she asks, “Where?”

“Caer Oswin,” Cassandra answers. “Every single trail goes cold at Caer Oswin, and I think Corypheus is imprisoning them.”

Ellana’s eyes shutter and she quietly says, “Cassandra, I do not want to say it but what if they are…”

“Dead?” Cassandra returns. “Yes, they might be, but I must find out the missing piece. They cannot all be dead, not yet.” Her voice becomes stronger, more strident, as she declares, “I left the Order, yes, but I cannot abandon them.” 

It’s a sentiment that she cannot abandon, a thought she cannot let go. She can’t deny the fact that it stung, stung more than anything else, when the Lord Seeker denied her requests, denied her ideas, and denied the validity of the Inquisition. He was someone that she worked with for many years and someone who supported her position as the Right Hand after those first, glory-wracked days of being the Hero of Orlais. Not to mention the sheer hurt after she received no other word from her other friends in the Order. No letter, no reply, not even from her first apprentice, Daniel. These are the thoughts that circulate around and around in Cassandra’s head when she declares her sentiments. By all rights, if she left the Order, she should leave behind all vestiges of it. But even then, she can’t give them up so easily. They were her life. It would do them wrong if she turned her back on them so easily.

“Then we shall leave as soon as possible,” Ellana promises. “Do you have anyone specific that you would like to take with you?” 

Cassandra sighs and takes a seat beside Ellana. “Not Iron Bull,” she says. “I trust the man in battle, but I do not trust him with the secrets of my Order. I do not want first-hand accounts of whatever happened in there being sent to Par Vollen. I fear that bringing Cole may not be a good idea either. The Lord Seeker or other Seekers will not take well to him and his state.”

“Then what about our original group?” Ellana offers. “Varric, Solas, you, and me.” 

Cassandra considers the suggestion. Sera might be too rambunctious and boisterous for a mission like this, especially if they took Blackwall with them. She likes Vivienne, but she thinks that Solas might be more agreeable to go with for a mission like this. And Varric? Cassandra would like to think that they’ve set their grudges aside. They’re still there, old and aching at the very bottom of their relationship, but they’ve grown past it. 

Cassandra nods, and Ellana reaches out to squeeze Cassandra’s hand. “We will find them,” Ellana promises. “We will find them,  _ ma’lath, _ and we will do whatever it takes for you to find your closure. This, I promise you. And if we do not find what you expected or if we do not find what you wanted, I will be there by your side for you. Always and forever.”

Cassandra kisses Ellana’s forehead and leans her own forehead against hers. They revel in the quiet solitude of that moment, and for that moment, Cassandra allows herself to forget her worldly troubles in favor of thinking only of Ellana.

The next day, Ellana rallies Solas and Varric to Skyhold’s gates in the bright and early morning. They set off towards Caer Oswin with Solas and Ellana referencing the stars for direction and Cassandra tracking their progress on her maps. Varric talks up nearly every town they stop at, squeezing every last drop of detail from other travelers on potential leads. Even then, the roads always lead back to Caer Oswin. One woman at a tavern tells Varric that she met a Seeker on his way to “meet his brother” at Lake Calenhad before moving onto Caer Oswin. A farmer tells Varric that no one came out of Caer Oswin’s general vicinity after arriving there. Each detail that Varric gathers up makes Cassandra even more nervous for the journey they have ahead. But finally, they reach the caer.

Cassandra stares up at the high, stone walls of Caer Oswin and wonders how many secrets the old fort holds. She vows to find her Order at the heart of it and takes the first step in. The air is musty, but the dust inside is barely there. She narrows her eyes at that and wonders if Bann Loren still frequents the caer often enough to keep the dust from settling down. There are no servants to greet them at the front gate nor are there any in the halls, so there shouldn’t be anyone to routinely clean the caer. Torches are ablaze and set on the walls, so that’s another clear indicator of someone still living within the castle.

Ellana pauses, cocking her head to the side, and suddenly, she cries out, “Duck!” 

Cassandra instinctively follows Ellana’s call and ducks just in time to miss an arrow as it whizzes over her head. The sound of a harsh war cry accompanies it, and soldiers pour out of the once-empty halls. Cassandra draws her sword and wades into the thick of battle. The cool sensation of Solas’s barrier settles over her shoulders, and she follows the light of Ellana’s gleaming spirit sword as a guide. They cut and hack their way through the men that try to oppose them, and with all things considered, Cassandra thinks they make relatively short work of it.

When the last man falls, Cassandra takes the time to study the insignia emblazoned on their breastplates and shields. Her lip curls as she swears under her breath and mutters, “Promisers. I should’ve known.” 

“Promisers?” Varric asks.

Cassandra glances at him and snorts, “The Order of Fiery Promise is a cult that thinks they are the  _ real _ Seekers. They think that we robbed them and prevented them from ending the world, and after that, they’ve hounded us for centuries. We stamp them out every time we find a pocket of them, but they reappear after a time like weeds. Nobody knows how, but  _ Maker, _ I should’ve expected something like that to be the real cause.” She shakes her head and rifles through the body’s pockets hoping to find something useful.

Everyone else follows suit, but they find nothing except for a few trinkets and handfuls of gold. Varric pockets the gold and the trinkets in his rucksack, but Ellana pauses and takes time to study their faces. Cassandra doesn’t know what Ellana sees in them, but she watches as Ellana gently closes their eyes — frozen wide with glassy death — and arranges their body into a peaceful, sleeping position before rigor mortis sets in.

They move on, and the halls seem emptier than Cassandra expects. After that battle, she was entirely prepared to fight through more Promisers. They only find chests and vases and torn paintings. However, they find a body on the ground, frozen in death with their limbs outstretched and bloody wounds puncturing their skin. When Cassandra rolls the body over, the first thing she sees is a familiar face. A man she first trained with during her early days in the Order. The Seekers’ symbol still hangs around his neck. “The Promisers will  _ pay _ for this,” she promises the corpse with vehemence shaking her voice.

She even finds a report tucked in an envelope with the wax seal cracked open. When she reads the words scrawled out on the scrap of parchment, she finds her entire world freezing around her. Time seems to still around her as she reads. Her grip slackens and the note slips out of her hands. Solas is the one to bend down and read it out loud.

“As the Seekers have been proven resistant to the effects of red lyrium,” Solas says. His voice shakes as he reads further, but he continues on. “The Elder One has seen it fit to place them in your care.” He blinks hard and lifts the paper even closer to his eyes to investigate it.

“Go on, Chuckles,” Varric urges. “Finish it.”

Solas’s eyes scan over the paper one more time, as if he did not believe what it originally said, before he clears his throat and says, “Reclaim your destiny, and know that the Elder One expects your devotion as repayment.” 

Cassandra slowly lifts her gaze to meet his, and she sees the stormy fury gathering in the corners of his eyes. She swears she can taste the ozone in the air — not from Solas, but from Ellana — and her entire world seems ready to crack open in a sea of raging fury. Her vehemence builds, and she storms off with her sword drawn. The others wordlessly follow her, and her vision seems to narrow in and tunnel solely on her goal: finding the others. However, there’s a node of fear solidly lodged in the center of her heart now. She does not know what she will find now.

Her steps ring out, cold and solemn, in the silence of Caer Oswin. No more Promisers seem to come after them. Cassandra suspects that they have retreated to form a more solid and defensible attack. She pauses and cocks her head to the side. No, she can’t hear anything else. No clinks of armor, no creaks from the floorboards. However, she does hear something strange. She frowns and takes a step closer towards where she thinks she hears the sound. 

Ellana pads up silently beside her — an easy feat with her leg wrappings compared to Cassandra’s thick-soled boots — and imitates the same motion. However, her long ears swivel slightly as she cocks her head. “Someone is there,” she murmurs after a moment’s worth of hearing. She beckons Solas to come closer and to try listening as well. “Heavy breathing, long and irregular. Injured? Dying? It is not normal by any case.”

“Correct,” Solas agrees. “The breathing is getting heavier and more ragged as time goes on. Whoever it is does not have long to live.”

Cassandra presses her lips together in a thin line and advances with her sword drawn. As she moves forward, she can finally hear the breathing that Ellana and Solas were talking about. They were right; the sounds are long and broken. Cassandra tries to place the voice, and as she places step after step down the hall, she finally realizes what it is. It’s a sound that she’s heard over and over on the field of battle. It is the sound of a man’s dying breath: the long rattle of shivering breath that signals the end. She hurries and rounds about the corner. 

Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimmer light, but she soon sees a man sprawled across the floor. Like the body that she found earlier, the insignia of her Order is emblazoned across his breastplate. Cassandra sheathes her sword and sprints towards him, desperation offering her steps wings. She drops to her knees by his sides and turns his face towards her. At first, she doesn’t register his appearance quite completely. Instead, she’s distracted by the unnaturally black veins that run up and down his skin, too close to the surface. Then, she recognizes him. “Daniel,” she says slowly, horror shaking the edge of her voice.

Her first apprentice. Oh, Cassandra remembers the thrill of pride she felt in her heart when she was allowed her first apprentice. She poured so much of her heart into his training, and he responded likewise with all the innocent joy and honor a student could bring to his training. She was so,  _ so, _ proud of him when he passed his own vigil, and she was the first to clap him across his back. She was the first to pour him his first drink as a full Seeker and the first to be on a mission that  _ he _ led instead of her leading him. Her brightest student, her brightest pride, her student, Daniel. 

That is the man that now lies in her lap, choking out the long rattle of death and fluttering his weak eyelids. “Cassandra,” he rasps out. “What are you doing here? Run, Cassandra, run before they find you.”

“Who are you talking about?” Cassandra says, the words pouring out of her like a torrent. “That’s not important. What’s important is getting you to safety, getting you treatment, some healing.” She presses her fingers to his pulse and finds it unacceptably weak. She shakes her head and with heart-wrenching sorrow, she asks, “What happened to you?”

Daniel coughs, and it wracks his body in a strange, unnatural fashion. The sheer force of his cough shakes his body as if his body was nothing more than a shell. “They put a demon inside of me,” he grits out once his coughing subsides.

“Impossible,” Cassandra breathes out. Her eyes widen and she scans his appearance for any other signs. Now, she sees the strange, waxen pallor and the overly dilated pupils blown so wide that she can barely see any of Daniel’s irises. The whites of his eyes are greying, and if Cassandra didn’t know any better, she would call it darkspawn taint or some sort of pox.

“No,” Daniel says. He clenches his eyes shut but continues, “They fed me things. I can feel it growing.” He winces, but he does his best to try and haul himself up. Cassandra helps him lean up against the wall. “Thank you,” he murmurs. He retches to the side before he regains his breath and says, “Lucius betrayed us, Cassandra. He sent us here, one by one. An important mission, he said.” Now, Daniel’s voice grows sharp with fury, and Cassandra finds her own anger to spark up with him. “Lies,” he snarls out. “He was with them all along. He’s still working with  _ them.” _

Ellana clears her throat softly, and Cassandra glances up to look at her. Ellana bends down beside Daniel and extends her right hand out, palm up. In the center of her palm, a small spark of magic blooms and grows until it becomes a dancing ball of spirit magic. It whirls with a familiar sensation that Cassandra recognizes as healing magic. “May I?” she asks. Daniel nods once, and Ellana leans in to bathe his features with the gentle light. The black veins don’t recede, but a flush of healthier pink floods his cheeks. Daniel’s coughing eases, and he’s able to support himself without Cassandra’s help.

Ellana leans back on the balls of her feet. Dissatisfaction remains in the lines of her face — Cassandra knows it too well to ignore it — but she dismisses the magic. “That is better, but not by much,” she says. “I cannot do anything more. There is something inside of you that pushes against the magic, rejects the light and the sparks. A corruption that I cannot take out.” She glances over at Cassandra and says sadly, “I am sorry. I cannot do any more.”

“No, you’ve done more than I ever could have,” Cassandra hurries to say.

Ellana grimaces, but she turns her attention back to Daniel. “You said that Lord Seeker Lucius Corin was here all along. However, we met him in Val Royeaux. I do not think that two Lord Seekers could be in the same place.” She frowns and reaches out to brush her fingers across Daniel’s forehead. A trail of magic accompanies her touch, and Ellana’s frown deepens. “Unless it was a demon of some sort, pretending to be him,” she says quietly.

Behind them both, Solas sighs, “There are some spirits talented in the arts of imitation, but I do not see how it would be possible without explicit consent and the presence of multiple rifts in Orlais.”

Daniel nods. “It’s true, the Lord Seeker allowed it. He let the demon take command while he…”

“Came here,” Cassandra finishes. Dark fury gathers in the depths of her mind, and she stands up, hand on the pommel of her sword. She will find the Lord Seeker within the depths of the caer and pay whatever price in blood, tears, and sweat to take vengeance for her fallen brethren. How many of her friends paid the price for the Lord Seeker’s folly? How many of them died, believing they were doing something right? Cassandra shakes her head and bitterly laughs. How easy it was for an order to fall into corruption. It seems so ironic that only a few weeks ago, she was mocking the Warden Order for their descent into blood magic and madness. Now, it seems like her own Order is no exception.

“Wait!” Daniel calls out after her. “Don’’t leave me like this, please!”

Cassandra glances back at him and returns to his side. She smoothes his hair back and says miserably, “You should have come with me. You didn’t believe in the war any more than I did. It’s my fault, Daniel.”

Daniel tries his best to crack a smile, but it costs him too much pain. The brief respite Ellana’s magic afforded him is wearing off too quickly. The black veins along his temples throb and grow in size as he chokes back another cough. “You know me,” Daniel says. “I wanted that promotion.” He laughs, but it sounds too hollow.

“Go to the Maker’s side, Daniel,” Cassandra breathes out. She traces the Sword of Mercy on Daniel’s forehead. She stands up and draws her sword. The sound of the metal sliding against her sheath sounds too sharp, too hollow, too devastating, for the silence of the room. With a long, shuddering sigh, she whispers, “You will be welcome there.”

She raises her sword. A quick blow. That is the most she can do for him now.

The rest seems like a blur to her. Black veins, black suffusing the normally red blood, the unnatural shine of it on her blade. Life draining out of her former apprentice’s eyes and the finality of death giving him the peace he so desperately wanted in the end.

Cassandra bends her head and whispers prayers, canticles, anything her mind can think of to offer his soul a final passage to the Maker’s side. She can feel Ellana’s hand in her own, and she hears her lover whisper, “Are you alright?”

Cassandra slowly lifts her gaze to meet Ellana’s worried countenance and murmurs, “I have never known a finer young man.”

Ellana gently tucks a strand of Cassandra’s hair behind her ear before she stands on her tip-toes to lay a gentle kiss on Cassandra’s cheek. She methodically kisses Cassandra’s forehead, nose, and her other cheek before she leaves one final, sweet kiss on Cassandra’s lips. “I am sorry,  _ vhenan,” _ Ellana says. 

“I’m sorry too,” Cassandra says. She wipes her blade across a set of fallen draperies on the floor. The blood leaves an unsightly stain — too dark to be human, too light to be demon — and she sheathes her blade. She tries to arrange Daniel’s body as best as she can. She swears to come back and retrieve his body for a proper funeral pyre. 

They move on through the caer methodically. There isn’t much left other than the courtyard now. Cassandra suspects that is where the Promisers and the Lord Seeker are. It’s much more defensible than a hallway, and there would be more space for more armed soldiers. And with that space, the Lord Seeker and his personal forces could start using ranged weapons within their arsenal. Yes, that is the only place left within this damn caer.

Varric picks the lock to the outdoors in less than a minute. It only takes him the slightest touch with a lockpicking tool before the lock falls away. “Shitty work,” he mutters before he pockets the lock. He glances back at Cassandra who nods. Varric opens the door and lets daylight stream through. Cassandra takes the first step out, and she squints, trying to adjust her vision to the sudden daylight.

However, she hears a low voice say, “Cassandra.”

The bright light of day is a far cry from the low dimness of the caer, and it only takes Cassandra a second more to focus on the source of the voice. Sure enough, the Lord Seeker is there, and the sight of him suffuses Cassandra with more hatred than she ever expected.

“With an elf I can only assume is the Inquisitor,” the Lord Seeker sneers when he sees Ellana. That’s almost enough for Cassandra to charge at him with her sword, but Ellana lays a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. Cassandra forces herself to tamp her anger down, but she keeps her hand on the pommel of her sword.

“Go on,” Ellana says in the most pleasant tone Cassandra’s heard her use for the entirety of this mission. “I assume you have much to say. Most villains do.”

“I presume you know our Order’s history,” Lucius begins as he paces back and forth in front of Cassandra. He pauses to gesture over to Ellana. “We were once like you. We were the original Inquisition, seeking to remake the world, to make it better in a time of madness.”

“No, Lord Seeker Lucius Corin, you are incorrect,” Ellana says. Her pleasant tone begins to wear thin, but she says his title with a short, mincing accent — almost as if she were imitating some noble or Madame de Fer herself. When Cassandra looks over to her, she sees a frown start to set in the lines of Ellana’s face. “We are not like you,” Ellana says, summoning up the same iron affability that Cassandra recognizes from Vivienne. “Do not insult my companions or me in such a manner again.”

“Watch your hubris, Inquisitor,” Lucius warns. “We choked on our own hubris and created the Chantry, the Circles, and now, a war that will see no end. You will too.” 

Cassandra stares at him, her mouth open with bewilderment and shock now. She cannot fathom how this man was the same man she once knew — someone whom she worked with, someone whom she followed, someone whom she  _ trusted _ — and she takes a step back. “So you did all this because you hated our Order? Why did you stay then? Why didn’t you leave instead of dragging everyone else— our brothers and sisters in arms — in with your twisted vision?” she breathes out.

Lucius turns his gaze on her and says somberly, “We Seekers are abominations, Cassandra.”

“Silence,” Ellana says. The sudden sharpness of her tone rings out — a clear contradiction to her original pleasantries — and almost echoes against the walls of Caer Oswin. Her face is thunderous with hidden fury, and Cassandra has seen this in Ellana enough to know that this does not bode well. Ellana shakes her head and in a softer but even more deadly tone, she snaps, “Cassandra is no abomination.”

Lucius shakes his head. “You know nothing, Inquisitor, of our true nature. We created a decaying world and sought to preserve it even as it crumbled,” he says. HIs voice rises, and his face twists into a wilder, more desperate expression. “We had to be stopped. You don’t believe it? See for yourself.” He pulls out a large tome from his bag and holds it up for Cassandra to see. “These are the secrets of our Order that has been passed down from generation to generation,” he says. He paces towards Cassandra, and Ellana stiffens. Cassandra can feel the telltale signs of magic flickering around Ellana like a lightning storm waiting to strike, and she suspects that Lucius can sense it too. It doesn’t faze him though, and he keeps walking until he presses the tome into Cassandra’s hands. “The war with the mages already begun, but it was not too late for me to do the right thing,” he murmurs.

Varric snorts, “You sure about that? There’s so much stuff you could’ve done that counts as doing the right thing, but you’ve managed to pick the one thing that’s the opposite of being right. Congratulations on that, I guess?”

The Lord Seeker ignores what Varric has to say and gestures once more to the caer. “What Corypheus has done with the templars does not matter. I have seen the future,” he promises.

Beside Cassandra, Ellana steps forward with sparks of fire beginning to sizzle in her hand. When she starts speaking, Cassandra stiffens because Ellana uses the same voice she uses for making judgments at Skyhold. Resolute. Adamant. Unyielding. “I have seen the future as well, Lord Seeker Lucius Corin, and I know what comes. A world painted in red whether it be blood of red lyrium. A world where nothing lives,” she says. Fury starts threading through her voice as she continues. “You think you are bringing a pure beginning to replace what you view as corruption, but you have fed corruption to the world from your own hand.” Her voice drops even lower as she snarls, “Creators have mercy on you, Lord Seeker Lucius Corin, because I never will.”

With that, she makes a pulling gesture with her left hand, and her Anchor flares up with green to answer her call. The Lord Seeker falls on his face after Ellana casts pure force to punch him down into the ground, and she extends her right hand out to toss a thin veil of magic over the area.  _ “Mythal’enaste,” _ Ellana murmurs before she summons up a blaze of fire that twists up in the air with the same pattern as her vallaslin.

And that is how Cassandra finds herself in the middle of battle. For a moment, she can’t bring herself to fight. Among the Promisers, she thinks she can spot a couple of old comrades — men and women she once fought alongside with — and she can’t move. Her arms remain at her sides, her sword remains sheathed, and the weight of the tome in her hands feels more like a burden than anything else she’s carried before.

In her peripheral vision, Cassandra thinks she can see a blade swinging down towards her. A flare of magic bursts in a ring around Cassandra, and fire mines appear in the ground, barely glimmering in Cassandra’s vision. The Promiser takes a step forward, and fires burst up from the ground to consume him. Ellana steps through her fire with her spirit sword in hand and retaliates with her own blow. Once the Promiser’s body lies motionless on the ground, Ellana glances up at Cassandra. The fire reflects off of Ellana’s flat irises and illuminates her entire face in flickering light. Cassandra gapes at Ellana and watches concern unfold across Ellana’s expression.

Ellana pauses only to caress Cassandra’s cheek before she lays down a barrier of fire mines in front of them. “You do not have to participate,” she says softly among the cacophony of battle. “You do not have to fight your former companions. I will not make you do that, Cassandra. We do not have to kill them all if you do not want that to happen.” 

Cassandra looks past Ellana and sees that the only bodies on the ground are Promisers. Varric and Solas skirt around former Seekers and target only those with the armor and insignias that Cassandra identified as part of the cult. That doesn’t stop them from knocking a couple Seekers unconscious, but the sheer sentiment of the action makes Cassandra’s heart clench. She shuts her eyes and sucks in a deep breath of air. The book feels heavy in her hands, but she forces herself to throw the book far off to the side so that the battle can not touch it. She thinks about Daniel with black blood stretching through his veins and thinks about all of her other apprentices and friends in the order. How many had Lucius sacrificed for the sake of his misguided vision? Cassandra opens her eyes and realizes that he sacrificed too many. Far too many. “No, let them perish,” she says in a low, dark voice. “If we let them live, they will continue to perpetrate their crimes.”

“Are you sure?” Ellana asks. A Promiser behind her stumbles over with his sword outstretched,  but he falls over and burns in the sea of fire mines laced on the ground. 

That only strengthens Cassandra’s resolve, and she draws her own sword. “I only have one thing to ask,” she says.

Ellana cocks her head, waiting for Cassandra’s answer, and Cassandra exhales. Smooth, slow, and steady. She finds her own quiet and her own peace despite the crackling of fire, the sound of battle cries, and the redolent scent of blood lying heavy on the air. “I will be the one to finish off the Lord Seeker,” Cassandra says as she holds her blade at the ready. She waits only for Ellana’s silent nod before she throws herself into battle. 

Duck, step to the side, swing the sword, raise the shield up. It’s a series of steps that Cassandra’s intimately familiar with, and the steady rhythm of it offers a cold kind of comfort to Cassandra. The kind of comfort borne out of years of training and practice and work that now seems so isolated, so devastating. Still, Cassandra pours her passion — all distilled into perfect, incandescent fury —  into each swing. Like she asked, Ellana, Solas, and Varric make room for her to advance on the Lord Seeker.

They circle each other, and at this distance, Cassandra is struck at how similar this is. This is how they used to train. But instead of wooden shields and practice swords, they deal with matters of steel and blood. Now, they deal with treachery and betrayal rather than the ideals and tenets that they once worked together to uphold. Like before, Lucius is the first to strike. However, Cassandra side-steps around his initial strike and rounds on his left side. He always left his swing open and too wide, and she uses that knowledge against him when she braces her shield upwards. 

Lucius knows her own patterns too though. He nimbly dodges around her strike and moves in on her left side. Cassandra bares her teeth in a facsimile of a laugh as she ducks. She learned her lesson when it came to her weak side. The puckered scar on her face is more than enough proof of that.

Cassandra can feel the surge of Ellana’s wild winds and the steady beat of Solas’s barriers. Without looking, she knows that Varric’s already sowed a barrier of caltrops and has Bianca out at the ready. Cassandra and Lucius continue trading blow for blow, wound for wound. He manages to get a strike in on her shoulder, but she retaliates with a heavy blow in the weak groove of armor near his thigh. However, the battle starts to die down around them. The sounds of swords clanging against metal diminish until there’s only her and Lucius left fighting. 

Years of experience is on Lucius’s side, but Cassandra makes up for it in the energy that she pours into the fight. There seems to be something tingling at the back of her mind that keeps her going, keeps her eyes bright and wide and  _ aware. _ A whisper, a voice, something that Cassandra can’t quite put her finger on. 

“You fight for something that you do not understand!” Lucius cries out mid-fight. “You do not see, you do not  _ know!”  _

Cassandra doesn’t even deign to give him a reply. Instead, she grinds out, “The righteous stand before the darkness.” She sees Lucius falter — only a single misstep — before she finishes, “and the Maker shall guide their hand.” With that, she smashes her shield into Lucius’s face and stabs her sword down to knock his sword out of his grasp. He falls backwards, and his blade clatters on the cobblestones. Cassandra doesn’t waste time and slams her foot in the center of Lucius’s breastplate. “You’re wrong, Lucius,” she says as she looks down on him. “I already see it. I already know it. At some point, power becomes its own master. We cast aside our ideals and tell ourselves it was all necessary. For the people, we claim. But you are the one who fails to see that you have done something unforgivable.” 

Cassandra lifts her sword up, just like she did in the caer with Daniel. “I will give you only one mercy,” she says quietly. The wind whistles in the absence of her voice. There are no other sounds to be made other than her voice. “The mercy of a quick death. The rest will be up for the Maker to judge, and may He and Andraste judge you more kindly than I ever will.” 

A single plunge down. The sudden spurt of blood. The dimming of the light in Lucius’s corrupted eyes. These are the details that stand out to Cassandra the most, and she leaves his body prone on the cobblestones. No, she will not carry his body to a funeral pyre. She will not give him the dignity of a death that none of her other brethren received.

They return to Skyhold in silence. Cassandra clutches the Lord Seeker’s tome tightly in her hands, refusing to let it go even for a moment. Ellana still sleeps with her in their tent and offers her quiet embraces, wordless kisses. Cassandra is grateful for that. She does not know if she has the words to express the sheer amount of emotions she feels. 

Almost immediately, Cassandra retreats to her own, bare room to pore through the tome. She does not bother to return to Ellana’s quarters or report back to Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine about what happened at Caer Oswin. She spends her hours and candles upon candles reading through the words that have been preserved for generations. From Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker, Cassandra reads about the legacy of her Order. 

It’s riveting to say the very least. However, she finds truths that shock her to her core. The source of the mage rebellion, how the Lord Seeker crushed it with death and blood, and what happened to her own soul, deep in that vigil. What horrifies her even more is that Lucius wasn’t wrong. She sees where his misplaced beliefs went and how he must have processed it, and she sees that all with startling clarity. 

She wanted to rebuild the Seekers. Now, she doesn’t know if it’s the right decision.

A knock on the door startles her out of her thoughts. She glances up and calls out, “Come in.” 

The door swings open to reveal Ellana with a small tray. On it is the familiar teapot and bag of tea leaves, but now, there’s a small roll of bandages, a few bottles, and a small dish of pungent herbs that Cassandra can smell from her desk. Ellana closes the door with her foot and pads over to the desk to set the tray down. “I wanted to check up on you,” she says. “Have you been sleeping here for the past two days?”

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra says with a sigh. She rubs her temples and shuts her eyes. “I’ve been so busy, reading this…” She gestures to the tome with the image of the Seeker insignia engraved into the leather. 

“Ah,” Ellana says. She tips Cassandra’s face up and studies Cassandra’s features with a wrinkle in her brow. “The healer told me that she had not seen you since you came back. A few scouts told me that you stopped only to bathe before you shut yourself up in here. Commander Rutherford told me that you were not there during morning training.” Her brow creases even more as she sighs, “I was worried,  _ vhenan.  _ So very worried.”

She gently moves the tome aside and sweeps all other papers and pens away. Then, she hoists herself up and perches on the edge of the desk. She reaches for a rag on the tray and dampens it with magical ice. “Shirt off,” she says with a click of her tongue. 

“What?” Cassandra says blankly.

Ellana’s gaze narrows on her and she says, “Do not make me take it off for you.”

Ah. Cassandra flushes when she remembers one instance where Ellana took the matter of her clothes into her own hands. Cassandra still hasn’t sewn her underclothes back together after that night. She tugs her shirt off and winces when she feels the wounds on her shoulder and waist. Ellana watches as Cassandra removes her bra as well, and Cassandra feels strangely heated under Ellana’s intense gaze. However, Ellana gasps when she sees the angry, red welt streaking across Cassandra.

“This will hurt,” Ellana warns as she wets her cloth with one of the small bottles. The familiar scent of sharp alcohol fills the space between Ellana and Cassandra. The bitter sting is just as familiar as Ellana cleans her wounds with a gentle touch. “You should have come to the healer right away,” she chides. “Or at least, come to Solas or  _ me _ to treat the wound.” She pauses in her ministrations to flick Cassandra’s forehead. “What if the wound festered? What if it grew worse without treatment? I trained for years to heal, Cassandra. It would not have taken more than a single question to treat this when we first stepped into Skyhold. Even on the journey back, I could have used magic and dried elfroot at the  _ very least.” _

Ellana steps back and sighs.  _ “Ir abelas, _ Cassandra,” she murmurs. “It is… Just… I feel as though it is my own body, my own heart, that feels the pain when you get injured or hurt.” In a lower voice, she grumbles, “And you worry me so.”

“Worry?” Cassandra says. She can’t hold back the soft laugh that bubbles out of her at the word. “You worry me more than anyone else in the Inquisition combined. You charge straight into battle without barriers or heavier armor, you scale nearly vertical cliffs for a sprig of elfroot, you try to adopt every baby dragon and dracolisk you come across, and even worse, you  _ jump off _ the roofs of Skyhold.” Her tone turns tender and sweet as she cups Ellana’s cheek. “No, you are the one who worries me the most. But I appreciate your concern, my love.”

Ellana resumes her work with a sheepish smile, and Cassandra grits her teeth to hold back the throbbing pain. The wash of cool magic feels like bliss against her skin, and she shivers at the sensation of her skin stitching and healing back together. “Done,” Ellana says. Cassandra turns to look at the mirror across the room. Her shoulder is red, and the welt and leftover pain is still there. However, the blood and clots are healed over and gone. 

Cassandra’s eyes meet Ellana’s in the mirror, and she says softly, “Be careful. I fear losing you so very much.” 

“The same goes for me as well,” Cassandra admits. 

Ellana sighs and eases herself off the desk. She slumps on Cassandra’s bare bed and glances at Cassandra. “Do you wish to sleep here again?” she inquires. 

Guilt pricks at the back of Cassandra’s mind, and she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’ve gone through the entire tome now. And what I’ve found…” Curiosity sparks bright and bold in Ellana’s eyes, but Cassandra notices the way Ellana holds her questions back. For that, she is grateful. Still, she sighs and offers, “And I have much to consider now that I know what I know now. Are you familiar with the Rite of Tranquility?” 

Fear flickers across Ellana’s face, naked and open and shaking, and she flinches away from Cassandra. Her visceral reaction shakes Cassandra down to her core. She always thought it was a necessary evil, but now, she cannot imagine Ellana with the sunburst brand across her forehead. No, that is unacceptable. Cassandra silently swears to herself that she will never let Tranquility touch Ellana, even though she knows the truth about it. Moreover, Ellana’s reaction is an answer enough for Cassandra, and she reaches over to clasp Ellana’s hands. 

“I know,” Ellana says in the barest of breaths. 

“It can be reversed,” Cassandra says in a rush of breath.

Ellana blinks slowly as she whispers, “The Rite of Tranquility can be… Reversed?”

“Yes,” Cassandra nods. “I told you about my vigil, how I spent a year emptying myself of all emotion. I didn’t spend a year. Instead, I was made Tranquil without even knowing it, and then, the Seekers brought a spirit of faith to touch my mind. That broke the Rite and gave me my abilities.” 

Ellana shakes her head and grips onto Cassandra’s hand tighter. “Cassandra,  _ vhenan,  _ my love, my star,” she quietly murmurs. “This was… This was information that could have saved so many innocent people. This was information that kept my people — my people of magic and spirit and dreams, the mages — under bondage.” Her voice cracks as she says, “It kept them leashed and bound. Dreamless. Numb."

“I know,” Cassandra says. Misery stretches long and wide across her thoughts, and it makes her voice sink down lower and lower in tone. “I know.”

“But you…” Ellana trails off and hesitates. She pulls her hands out of Cassandra’s grasp and stands. At first, Cassandra thinks Ellana will leave, but Ellana steps closer to cup her hands around Cassandra’s face. Her fingers are cold at first from the chill of the ice she summoned earlie, but they warm up. Whether it’s from Ellana’s own body heat or her magic, Cassandra doesn’t know. But Ellana’s eyes burn, bright and blazing, as she gazes at Cassandra. “I want to support you,” she says. “I want to believe you and support you in what you believe is right.”

Cassandra is speechless, and she fumbles for her words. “Ellana, you don’t have to —” she starts.

Ellana hushes her by placing her finger on Cassandra’s lips. “No, Cassandra, please, listen to me,” she says. “I believe in you because you have a kind heart. You see injustice in the world and want to correct it. You see the world in a better light, and you pour yourself into your work, heart and soul.” Her voice grows tender and soft as she continues, “And because of that, I believe you would be able to rebuild your Order and make it better than it ever was."

“Are you sure?” Cassandra can’t help but ask.

Ellana chuckles, slow and steady. The sound is so  _ Lavellan _ that it makes Cassandra instinctively smile as well. “Cassandra,” Ellana says with full and brimming confidence. “If there is anyone in this world who could rebuild the Order into something better, something  _ kinder, _ then it is you. The decision is ultimately yours to make. Just know that I will support you in whatever you choose to do.”

Cassandra lifts her hands up to fold them around Ellana’s hands still on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispers. She squeezes Ellana’s hands. “I could not have done this on my own, my love.”

Ellana only answers with a gentle kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a headcanon that i sorta co-opted from my headcanons about the taint, but i do enjoy the thought of the inquisitor changing the anchor and the anchor changing the inquisitor in turn. in my mind, i think about how the anchor now bears traces of lavellan's magic while lavellan bears a little more than the mark. they're subtle things: a shade of green in the irises that wasn't there before, the anchor's magic adapting to lavellan's magic specialty, brief glimpses of things that lavellan's never seen before in dreams. just a little oomph, you know? nothing major haha
> 
> i also headcanon that the anchor makes the dreams of those around the inquisitor even more vivid. hence, cassandra remembers more of her dreams and has brighter, clearer dreams when she sleeps with lavellan vs not. i mean, if the thing was meant to cross back and forth across the veil, the same principle should somewhat apply to the malleability and awareness in dreams, right?
> 
> anyhow, that's enough of my little headcanons hahaha :") thanks for all your patience with the update! february turned out to be a busier month for me, and i ended up having a bit of writer's block in the process of writing this as well. hope you enjoy the new chapter and i'll do my best to write more asap!


	12. born of sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first part of this chapter specifically references a scene from ["drops of water in an endless sea"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283470/chapters/40647713) which is a fic comprised of all the cut scenes and extra tidbits from this main fic. you don't have to read it to make the chapter make sense, but it might help.

Nowadays, Ellana seems to spend more time in the War Room than anywhere else in Skyhold. Cassandra always finds her hunched over the map or moving markers on the map experimentally as she bites her lip. She even has a smaller version of the map laid out on her desk within their quarters. Sometimes, when Cassandra wakes up at night, she sees Ellana studying the map with her Anchor as a reading light within the darkness.

Cassandra worries about her. Varric calls her a pessimist, but Cassandra likes to say that she’s the type of person who hopes for the best while preparing for the worst. Even so, the worry eats away at her. Ellana’s dark circles grow deeper and more pronounced, and she seems to have more turbulent dreams whenever she does sleep. The green in Ellana’s eyes seem to deepen with each passing day, and Cassandra _worries._

One night, Cassandra wakes up to see Ellana hunched over the map while clenching another note in her hand. She slips out of bed to stand by Ellana’s side, but when she places a hand on her lover’s shoulders, Cassandra has to yank it back. Ellana’s skin radiates pure heat, and when Cassandra probes Ellana’s aura with her Seeker senses, she feels fire licking up and down Ellana’s magic.

Ellana glances back and sighs when she sees Cassandra. She rises up and burns the note in her hand with flickering fire. Soot falls on the floor in a soft shower as she murmurs, “Go back to sleep, _vhenan.”_

“Not without you,” Cassandra says. She searches Ellana’s face for any sign of change, and she’s relieved to see that her eyes are still mostly dark. Ellana glances down at her palms and tries to swat some frost over her skin to cool it down. Cassandra opens her arms for an embrace, and when Ellana leans in closer, Cassandra brings her Seeker abilities to the forefront to quell the rising fire that threatens to tip Ellana’s equilibrium. “Would you like to talk about it?” she asks.

Ellana nudges Cassandra’s feet with her own foot until Cassandra softly laughs and swings Ellana up. She carries her lover, bridal style, to the bed before she carefully deposits Ellana down with as much care as she possibly can. Ellana curls up on the bed and sighs, _“Ir abelas,_ Cassandra, I do not mean to wake you so much.”

Cassandra slips under the covers and twines her fingers with Ellana’s. She doesn’t say another word. Not until Ellana is willing to give them.

A moment passes before Ellana curls in closer to Cassandra’s side. “They always argue,” she quietly confides. “Ceaseless, constant arguing in the war room. Debating on whether or not our armies can move fast enough. Whether or not we can glean more information from a prisoner or from more scouts. Whether or not riches and favors will buy our Inquisition more power in the land. Whether or not I make decisions that are meaningful enough. But every minute that we spend arguing is a minute that we pay with one of our soldiers’ lives. I cannot stand it, _vhenan,_ I cannot.”

Cassandra tucks a strand of hair behind Ellana’s ear and props herself on her side so that she can gaze at Ellana. She traces the smooth line of Ellana’s ear down her neck and shoulder, and Ellana instinctively shivers under the gentle touch. Cassandra brushes over a few scars before she finally says, “And have you made your decisions?”

Ellana shuts her eyes. The Anchor flares briefly and illuminates the space between them with green before it settles down. “Yes,” Ellana says. “I have. Morrigan told me that there is an Eluvian within the Arbor Wilds. One made by my people very long ago. Corypheus is trying to access the Fade through it which we cannot allow.” She dips her head down, hiding her gaze from Cassandra’s probing eyes. “And I have made compromises. Sending Leliana’s scouts ahead while letting Josephine order the nearby nobles to send their own resources and men. Having Cullen’s army come while the spies and scouts slow down Corypheus’s forces enough. A compromise.”

“You are exceptionally good at that,” Cassandra tries. “I think you chose a good solution considering what they usually argue about.” And oh, Cassandra knows the arguments between the advisors intimately well. After all, she was the one trapped between the trio when there was no Inquisitor to helm the cause. One who calls for the simple answer of sword and shield, one who delves deep into the currency of secrets and shadows, and one who always relies on the coffers of gold and diplomacy seeped in the ranks of the nobility. All with different answers and solutions. Cassandra cannot imagine the kinds of options and ultimatums they present to Ellana now. And more importantly, she cannot imagine how Ellana reconciles her desperate need to save every single life with the necessary sacrifices of war. But Cassandra knows that she does with a heavy heart. She’s seen Ellana carry out her fair share of judgements — all with firm voice and quiet eyes — and she knows that Ellana bears this burden with more grace than any of them ever could.

She tips Ellana’s head up with her finger and watches as Ellana allows her to do so. Slowly, carefully, their eyes meet, and Cassandra’s enraptured by the sheer wonder that is Ellana of Clan Lavellan. Ellana surges up to peck Cassandra on the lips, and Cassandra pulls her back in for a deeper one. “Don’t try to distract me,” she chuckles against Ellana’s lips.

Ellana retaliates by nipping at Cassandra’s bottom lip and pulls away just long enough to say, “You were the one who started it. Rare, considering that I am almost always the one to push.”

Cassandra laughs at that and settles her hand on Ellana’s shoulder. She gently pushes her away, and the merest brush of pressure makes Ellana retreat, albeit unwillingly. “Anything else?” Cassandra says as one final check up. “Nothing else amiss in the world?”

“Oh, there are many things in the world that are amiss,” Ellana snorts. “But for now? Mmm…” She trails off and lets her fingers wander over Cassandra’s body. “Only a small issue in Wycome that I am handling. Only a small issue.”

Cassandra almost asks her for more information, but the words choke themselves out in a gasp when Ellana slips her hand underneath Cassandra’s shirt. Ellana purposefully makes her hands colder with magic to make her touch even more sharp and provoking, and Cassandra bites back a soft moan. Ellana flicks her fingers against Cassandra’s skin underneath the shirt and tuts, “No holding back, _vhenan._ Sing if you would like. I enjoy any sound you make.”

The night passes in a heady manner after that, and Cassandra wakes up with a good deal of marks littered across her body. Whether they be small nips or scratches, they’re all easy to hide underneath her usual armor. But with all that, Cassandra wakes up to an empty bed. She rises and dresses — watching the marks of Ellana’s love disappear under the layers of armor — but she pauses. Ellana’s papers and notes are still on the table, piled up by the map.

Cassandra moves over to inspect what have occupied Ellana’s attentions so much. Some of the paper have numerous notes in elvhen script swirling down the lines in an incomprehensible manner. Other papers have miniature maps drawn on them with alternate routes scrawled on top. _She must have been searching for alternatives,_ Cassandra thinks to herself. She arrives to that conclusion purely because it is such a classically Lavellan thing to do. No matter what the option is, her Ellana has always been one to turn over each and every option in the depth of her mind before she settles on the final decision. And always, _always,_ it is an option made to save the most people as she possibly can.

It’s a noble sentiment that Cassandra admires in Ellana, but even she knows that it is one of the worst qualities for an Inquisitor. The advisors remind Ellana of this frequently: _you cannot save every single person no matter how hard you try._ And every time, Ellana insists that she can. Every death and every loss wears down on Ellana and adds more weight to the burden she carries on her shoulders. Cassandra wants to tell her to stop it, to accept the fact that war always has a price to pay whether that be in blood or life or death. But Ellana can’t, and that is the bold-faced, simple truth of it all. Cassandra thinks that one day, Ellana will break herself in an effort to save even the smallest life, and Cassandra refuses to let Ellana do that to herself.

Cassandra sighs heavily when she thinks about it, and she hopes that one advisor, at the very least, will do something to keep Ellana and their plans on track. She sifts through the papers even more and recognizes exceptionally little among the elvhen characters. The only thing she truly recognizes is a small note written in Common. It isn’t much, only a small note about different paths along the coasts that ring Wycome’s eastern border. On top, it has “give to Leliana” in smaller letters.

Cassandra turns the note over in her hand, but again, she does not recognize the elvhen script. The only one she thinks she recognizes from her brief lessons with Solas or the small snippets of letters and words that Ellana taught her. She squints at the word once more and decides that it is indeed “Lavellan.” Probably Ellana’s signature on the note, albeit one hidden amongst other scrawled notes and letters on the small piece of paper. She sets it back down exactly how she found it and leaves.

A scout brings a message to her regarding the Arbor Wilds. Ellana is moving at noon, and she expects Cassandra, Solas, Mahanon, and Cole to accompany her. Varric, the Iron Bull, and Dorian are to comprise one flanking squad, and Vivienne, Blackwall, and Sera comprise the second. Together, they are to travel to the Arbor Wilds before splitting into three different forces that will circle around the Temple and ward off Corypheus’s forces. Ellana’s group is to go directly inside the temple with Lady Morrigan. Cassandra sighs as she reads through the briefing report once more.

She makes a point to stop by Cullen’s office after morning training is done. She arrives just in time to see Cullen hurl a box at the wall, barely missing her head. It clatters against the doorframe and falls on the ground. The lid falls open and crushed philters and tools spill out. Cassandra glances up to see Cullen flushing bright red, and she carefully steps over the broken glass before she asks, “Getting worse?”

Cullen leans heavily against his desk, and now, Cassandra can see the beads of sweat dotting his brow. Morning training was an hour ago, so she squints at them suspiciously. “Relieve me of duty, Cassandra,” he breathes out. His knuckles tighten on the edge of his desk. “Please, just let me go, Cassandra. I can’t do it. I can’t make it.”

Cassandra chooses to ignore his words as she searches for some sort of broom to sweep up the glass. “Have you talked to Ellana about this?” she asks. She finally settles on picking up the box and the unbroken tools. The glass clinks against her gauntlets, and she uses the briefing report in her pocket to sweep up the shards into a small pile.

“The Inquisitor?” Cullen sighs. “No, I haven’t told Lavellan about this yet.”

“Not yet?” Cassandra repeats, pausing in her motions. She straightens up and stares Cullen in the eyes. “We are about to advance on another military campaign — possibly the most important ones we’ve had so far — and you haven’t told our Inquisitor? I know I agreed to help you through it, but, you still haven’t told Ellana? Doesn’t she deserve to know?”

“The minute she finds out is the minute that she evicts me from the Inquisition,” Cullen says despairingly. He circles around his desk and sinks heavily into his high-backed chair. “I’ve already had ‘talks’ with her about my ability to fulfill the role of her military commander. She doubts me because I am — I _was_ — a templar. She thinks that my ability to judge people is skewed, that my ability to sympathize with our new allies is biased, that my plans depend too heavily on templar tactics rather than adapting to the enemy and our allies.”

Cassandra eyes him carefully and debates on what she should say. The words that he says once rang true. But that was a time buried in the avalanches over Haven, and Cassandra hopes that Cullen has changed his perspective since then. “Have you considered that she may have good reason to be wary of templars?” Cassandra finally says. “And Ellana herself has grown more since Haven. She addresses templar issues as best as she can and does her best to place her view from their perspective. You know what she says about the Mage-Templar War. She always says that you must see the world from both sides before you can make a decision, and she makes good decisions. She isn’t heartless, Cullen.”

“She relies more on Josephine and Leliana in the war room,” Cullen grumbles under his breath. Cassandra thinks that he almost seems like a petulant child in that moment, but then Cullen lifts his face to gaze at Cassandra. The way the light filters through his office casts his face in a way that highlights the deep, dark circles sunken in under his eyes, the bloodshot sclera of his eyes, and the too-sharp and hollow angles of his face. The marks that lyrium left on him still shock Cassandra sometimes, and she thanks the Maker that He guided her to the Seekers instead of the Templar Order as she originally wanted.

Cassandra considers Cullen’s words and tries to think about Ellana. Why does she make the decisions that she does? Why does she do it? A mental image of Ellana hunched over the map, even at the darkest hours of the early morning, comes up in her thoughts. And then, Cassandra thinks she knows Ellana’s reasons. “Because she prefers to know that her soldiers are not in harm’s way,” she says slowly. “Because she prefers it when the soldiers help rebuild homes and gather resources for the broken towns and villages rather than moving forward to break more. Because Ellana — because _Lavellan_ — believes that we are not Corypheus and his blind masses of lost templars. That is what she wants to believe, what she wants to see from us. She does not single you out of spite, Cullen.”

Cullen blinks at that, and he idly thumbs the scar bisecting his lip. “Did you know,” he suddenly says. “I met Lavellan once when I was still in Kirkwall.” Cassandra wrinkles her brow, unsure of where this conversation leads. “I was on patrol in Lowtown on a day when the Dalish were in the markets to trade. She fell over, and sparks flew from her fingertips. A mage.”

“You did not,” Cassandra breathes out with horror.

Cullen shakes his head. “It’s true, but I didn’t know what I thought I should have. Instead, I helped her get up and gather her things. And that was the last that I ever saw of her in Kirkwall.” He glances up at the roof — exactly where Lavellan thatched the roof herself — and sighs, “She was the first to mention it to me back in Haven. And that’s when she said she chose to trust me and the remaining bit of kindness she believed I still had in me. And I do not want to betray that trust by telling her that I’ve been incapable of properly leading the Inquisition for this long.”

“And do you still have kindness in you?” Cassandra asks. “Do you still view mages like you once did in Ferelden and in Kirkwall?”

Cullen presses the thumb of his hand hard into the center of his palm as if he were trying to ground himself. “No,” he admits. “But I cannot stand who I am,  who I was. It would be better for everyone if I just left. If I was just gone.”

“Then you are running away from the truth that you are acknowledging,” Cassandra says. “You do not atone and you do not repent by running away. A single moment does not define your entire life, but what you do afterwards is what shapes it. What have you been doing since the Tower and since the Gallows, Cullen? Stand up. Face your future. Choose to think and act differently than you have done before.”

She raps her knuckles against Cullen’s desk and recites, “But the one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace.”

Cullen raises his gaze up to meet Cassandra’s, and she sees a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Transfigurations, one of Andraste’s most popular sermons. As a former Templar, he should know this by heart. And like clockwork, he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and recites, “She shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction. The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

Cassandra reaches out for the box and the tools and places it right by Cullen’s hand. “You are capable of redeeming yourself if you do not wallow in your miseries. Take that first step forward. I will not relieve you from your post, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford, but I do expect you to speak to Lavellan about this. Carry on. Define yourself again.”

Cullen gazes at the box before he drags his gaze up to Cassandra’s. He wipes his brow and says softly, “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Cassandra says. “Thank yourself instead.” She reaches into her other pocket to find her notes on their impending military advance. She slides it next to the box as well and says, “I’ve made some notes and suggestions for our campaign in the Arbor Wilds. I’ve also included some accounts from old Seeker expeditions in that vicinity that may help. I’ve asked Varric to check in with our supply lines, and the Orlesian merchant in the courtyard agreed to help with that as well.”

Cullen’s eyes gleam when he sees them, and he stands up at full attention. Determination flashes in his countenance as he skims through the first couple of bullet points Cassandra’s made, and he laughs. It’s breathy and barely audible, but still, it’s a laugh. “Thank you, Cassandra,” he says. “Thank you. I’ll look over these right away.”

Cassandra smiles. “At ease, Commander,” she says. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She turns on her heel and leaves Cullen’s office. The morning sun rises higher and higher in the sky, and people rush and hurry in the courtyards. Some carry boxes of military supplies while others clean and prepare their armor and blades. Cassandra heads off to her quarters as well to prepare for their journey, and she runs into Ellana on the stairs.

“Oh!” Ellana gasps. “I was just looking for you.” She reaches out for Cassandra’s hand and presses a woven chain in the palm of her gauntlet. A stray piece of broken glass caught between the links of Cassandra’s gauntlet snags on Ellana’s skin and leaves a scratch, blooming bright red on her skin. She clicks her tongue and smoothes over the scratch with a handful of magic.

Cassandra leans over to inspect Ellana’s scratch, but Ellana pushes her away with a smile. “Enough about me, I am fine,” she says. “Look at what I gave you instead. A gift for you before we leave.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes at Ellana, but her lover only offers up a cheeky smile. She checks over Ellana’s scratch one more time and smiles when she sees that it’s perfectly sealed up. Now, she looks at what Ellana gave her. It’s a long, woven chain made with what seems to be dyed hemp, braided and knotted into an intricate pattern. Different colors interplay with each other as it loops and crosses into different patterns, and there are small beads knotted into it. At the very end of it, there’s an acorn brushed with gold paint and inscribed with a glyph of some sort and a familiar rune on the other side.

Elvhen for _Lavellan._

Cassandra turns it over and over in her hand before she looks up and breathes out, “What is it?”

Ellana is veritably beaming with pride as she explains, “It is a faith chain, a Dalish craft. We take dried reeds or hemp or some fiber and add different dyes. Each color represents something different, and then, we take it and knot them together into a long chain. The pattern and the knots vary for each person that we make them for, but I made it to mean faith, love, kindness, protection. I wove magic into each knot to protect you in our journeys.”

Her expression dims somewhat as she taps the beads. “These are seeds, meant to continue life on, should you…” She trails off before her voice cracks. Ellana exhales before she continues, “Should you fall in battle. Our Dalish funeral rites include planting a sapling over the body, and if… If the worst happens, then this chain will take the seeds deep into the ground. The earth will remember you even when none of us are no longer here on this earth to remember. The earth will always remember you and our love no matter how many years pass, no matter how many wars break over the soil where you stand, no matter how many fires or rains pass over you, it will always be there.”

Cassandra’s voice catches in her throat, so she leans in to pull Ellana into a tight embrace. She kisses Ellana, everywhere she can, and she holds her close. Ellana continues speaking albeit a bit muffled. “I wrote my clan’s name on the acorn as well as a barrier glyph,” she says. “It is a way of carrying me with you when you are in a place I cannot reach. When we were in the Fade… It was too close, and I was so scared for you, and I thought, I thought…” Ellana nestles even closer — if that was even possible by this point — and she whispers, “I thought I lost you. For good. And I do not want that to happen, never in our lifetimes, _never.”_

Cassandra pulls back just enough to meet Ellana’s gaze and quietly says, “Never. I will always be there for you.”

“And I, for you as well,” Ellana agrees. She reaches for the woven chain again and slips it into Cassandra’s pocket. “You may keep it wherever you wish.”

“I’ll keep it with me,” Cassandra promises. “During battle, during expeditions.”

Ellana leans in and stands on her toes to peck Cassandra on the lips before she slips out of Cassandra’s arms. “I will see you at the gates then,” she says just before she starts sliding down the banister. Cassandra watches her go with a fond smile flickering at the edge of her lips. Then, she turns to pack her own bag.

The sun is at its zenith when Cassandra steps towards the gate. Her horse is already waiting for her, and she spots Ellana astride her own hart. Cassandra hoists herself up and they start making their way towards the Arbor Wilds. They travel with a different kind of atmosphere than they did before. There is the tense kind of somber ambience that normally accompanies any military campaign that they set forth on — the same kind of ambience like their journey to Adamant — but this time, almost all of the Dalish elves within the party seem to have a new energy to them. After all, they _are_ heading to their ancestors’ homeland, but their energy is infectious to the point where even the city-born and Circle elves murmur about it.

Ellana herself seems to treat the journey as something reverent, and Cassandra often sees Ellana draw out the same pattern of her own vallaslin in the dirt with a stick whenever they stop to camp. When she asks about it, Ellana only laughs and says, “I am excited every time we return to the Dales, my love. There is something magical about walking on the same paths your ancestors once walked long ago. It is wonderful to see some of the old memories of the Dales in dreams as well, and they only get stronger the closer we get.”

Still, Cassandra notices the way Ellana continues to toss and turn at night. Nothing much has changed since their nights at Skyhold. Ellana still holds something fearful, something nervous, at the center of her heart that she is not willing to share yet. It bothers Cassandra no matter how much she tries to put it out of her mind, but she does not say a word yet. She tells herself that she will confront Ellana about this late once they return to Skyhold. She wants to be there for Ellana, but she doesn’t know if she’s doing a good job of it.

Every morning when she rises, Cassandra always checks for Ellana’s woven cord. It’s always safely there where she left it the night before, but some irrational part of her fears losing it. She keeps it safe and close beside the wooden griffin carving Blackwall made her. They are nothing more than small trinkets, but the meanings that they hold for her are immeasurable. She thumbs over the acorn briefly before she leaves her tent and faces the glaring sun of the rising morning.

Cassandra settles by the dying embers of the campfire and pokes at the ashes with a stick. She pulls out a flint from her pack and starts building up a small fire to cook breakfast with. Ellana wakes up later than she does, so she figures that it might be nice to have Ellana’s breakfast ready for her. It’s not much: only toasted bread, dried meat, and some berries picked from nearby bushes. But when Ellana wakes up, bleary-eyed and quiet, Cassandra has it all on a plate for her.

Ellana has half her armor hanging from her body as she shuffles out of the tent, but she stops and stares at the plate in Cassandra’s hands. “For you,” Cassandra prompts.

Ellana reaches out to grab the plate and murmurs, “You did not have to.”

Cassandra glances back at the sunrise and shrugs. “No one else was awake, and we’ve been eating rations on the go. We all deserve to sit down and eat some breakfast.”

Ellana says softly, “I do not deserve you.”

“I could say the same of you,” Cassandra laughs. She tugs Ellana down to sit beside her and starts tying together the knots of Ellana’s armor. It’s hard to do the Dalish style of knots, and her fingers itch to tie them the way she learned how to tie down armor years ago. However, Dalish armor behaves and wears differently than Seeker armor, and that’s simply a fact that Cassandra has to accept. Ironbark and leather weave together in intersecting diagonal strips over the larger plates of ironbark of Ellana’s armor once she’s done. It’s slightly crooked, but it’s serviceable.

They work and eat in peaceful quiet, and Ellana slips some berries and bread into Cassandra’s mouth as she works. Then, Cassandra turns to allow Ellana access too. Likewise, Ellana carefully puts on each and every plate of Cassandra’s armor with care. Sometimes, she pauses to kiss a bit of exposed skin, and a rush of thrilling, exhilarating love flares up in Cassandra’s heart when she feels it.

That is how they travel to the Arbor Wilds, and in truth, that is how they always travel now: in easy, matching, _tender_ tandem.

Just before they reach the first forward camp, Josephine sends word via one of Leliana’s ravens that Celene is there waiting for them. Ellana sighs when she reads the letter and only asks, “Do you think Briala will be there?”

“Quite frankly, no, and don’t give me that sad look,” Dorian answers. “I suspect she’ll be in Val Royeaux, holding politics and the Game in check.”

“Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful,” Ellana says dryly. “Creators knows I need more of that. Let her stay in Val Royeaux while I deal with the empress. At least we are here to wage war, not to play the Game. Why is this royal not as tolerable as the royal in Ferelden? I, for one, would rather work with Alistair than Celene.”

“Well, Orlais was the one to take the Dales, so there’s that grudge. You also had a terrible time at Celene’s party. And also, King Alistair wasn’t raised as a royal,” Varric comments. “I think it’s easier to get along with regular people who become rich rather than the other way around. Also, birdie, you only like Alistair because he agreed to let you come to the royal kennels and pick out a mabari puppy for your own. I’m also going to remind you of the fact that you were furious at Alistair for kicking the mages out of Redcliffe.”

“And Inquisitor,” Vivienne comments. “You are never free of the Great Game. The minute you step past the borders of Orlais, you entrench yourself in it. You, perhaps, more deeply than the others.”

“I have said this once, and I will say it again. I do not want to be Inquisitor, and I do not want to play the Game,” Ellana grumbles. “Let someone else be the Inquisitor while I retire to the countryside and raise a herd of halla with my wife. If that is not an option, I can just be a scout for the Inquisition. I can do that. I can be good at that.”

Cassandra flushes when Ellana says the word “wife.” Varric gives her an infuriating smirk when he hears it too, and she’s almost certain that Dorian and Iron Bull have equally infuriating looks on their faces behind her.

Still, Vivienne soldiers on as she says, “But my dear, you play the Game so well. Why not use it to your advantage?”

“My advantage?” Ellana echoes. She snorts at the mere thought of it and replies, “Vivienne, I will always play the Game at a lower level than every other participant because of the shape of my ears and the magic in my blood. No, let the Orlesians bleed their own country dry. I am content with my clan.”

“It’s been ages since you’ve been back with your own clan though,” Dorian points out. “They’re near Wycome right now, aren’t they?”

Ellana blinks, and in that singular moment, Cassandra thinks she sees something crumble in Ellana’s expression. Dorian glimpses it too, and he opens his mouth to change the subject, pull the conversation back, _something_. But Ellana shakes her head. “The Inquisition is my clan as well,” she says gently. “I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan, yes, but I am also Ellana of the Inquisition. That is something indelible, something permanent, something like home because you are all here and create lines back to my heart. You are all home, all family, to me as well as the family I have in my blood clan. And I would not change that for the world.”

She reaches out to hold Vivienne’s hand and gives it a soft squeeze. “I will only play the Game with Celene and any other Orlesian who wishes to try their hand at a match against me if it will help my clan. Not for myself, only for others should the need arise.”

Vivienne regards her in a startled silence, but the look in her eyes slowly softens and thaws. She squeezes Ellana’s hand back and shakes her head ruefully. “Rare is the person who can tear themselves willingly from the Game when they are so good at it,” she says. “And you are a person who could have mastered the Game with both words and blades.”

Ellana shrugs. “But that is not something that I must do,” she says. “It is not something that calls to me.”

They move onto the forward camp, and sure enough, Empress Celene is there. Ellana purposefully wakes up earlier and bedecks herself in her Dalish robes. There is a ceremonial cloak and a number of wrappings that she carefully entwines around her arms and legs. She hangs hammered metal that loops around the shell of her ear, and she carefully adjusts her ironbark armor over it. When she’s done, she looks immaculate and also incredibly powerful. The enchantments that Dagna wove into the fabric of the armor washes Ellana with a strong glow of innate magic, and Ellana’s own aura of magic amplifies when she adds several charmed rings, necklaces, and her inscribed belt.

Empress Celene keeps her head held high, but Ellana does not bow. Instead, Ellana cocks her head and raises an eyebrow, waiting for Celene to bow instead. Cassandra glimpses the flinty gaze in Ellana’s eyes, stronger than silverite, and she smiles to herself when she sees Celene finally break and dip into a bow for Ellana.

They discuss what the Inquisition plans to do in the Arbor Wilds, and Ellana manages to cajole a few regiments and coffers of gold out of Celene. Their words are quick and veiled, and Cassandra is glad for that. Celene is not the first one who has arrived here to the Arbor Wilds. Despite their best efforts, Corypheus has arrived in the Arbor Wilds first. The battles have already begun, and they cannot waste more time with the empress.

Ellana quickly directs her forces where she wants them and divides her inner circles she originally called for. Cassandra is already by Ellana’s side so she watches as Cole, Mahanon, and Solas slip out from the caravans to stand at the ready.

Vivienne is already moving, ice flaring out in small wisps of frost and weaving themselves into a barrier that shimmers over her skin. Dorian has his staff out as he moves forward. However, before he progresses any further, he lifts his staff up high in the air to cast a small ball of light that spins and dances in the air before it floats forward to identify any traps or hidden caltrops. The Iron Bull hefts his freshly polished battle axe while Blackwall raises his large tower shield up as he follows the mages.

Varric is the only one to pause in front of Ellana before he shakes his head and sighs, “Be careful out there, Birdie.”

“Always,” Ellana promises.

Varric doesn’t look like he believes it, but he slings Bianca off his back and handles the recurve of the crossbow with ease. “Good to hear it,” he says before he follows the others into battle.

Ellana glances back at the remaining party members. The breeze whisks her hair back and lets sunlight dance across the vallaslin still engraved on her freckled skin. In that moment, Ellana looks like something more than mortal, something painted in light and shadow and magic and might. But it only lasts for a moment before Ellana turns on her heel as well and plunges battle.

They slog through fight after fight. Red templars, twisted red lyrium behemoths, and possessed Grey Wardens stumble around in the Arbor Wilds, leaving death and devastation in their wake. Cassandra falls into the rhythm of fighting and follows the melody of Ellana’s magic as it twists and spirals through the air. The Anchor on Ellana’s hand illuminates the space in front of them and blinds the foes they come up against.

But despite the brilliant light, Cassandra thinks she spots a few shadows here and there that are not shaped as they are supposed to be. They’re tall, willowy, elven shapes in every way. However, Cassandra doesn’t quite recall any one of their forces looking like that. They fell down the Templars and the Wardens with equal — if not more — force as the Inquisition does, but occasionally, some of the elven shadows turn on the Inquisition forces that they just spent the past battle fighting with.

Ellana pauses mid-spell and almost chokes on her gasp that bubbles out of her mouth. One of the shapes steps out of the shadows, and Cassandra glimpses gleaming bronze armor hammered into a shape that she recognizes from no fashion nor style. Ellana seems frozen in the moment, but adrenaline courses through Cassandra’s blood as she lunges forward with her shield. She arrives just in time to block a sword’s strike on Ellana’s head.

That’s enough to jolt Ellana out of her momentary reverie, and she cries out something in elvhen. Her voice is thin and it wavers on the edge, but it makes the new elf pause to snarl something low and guttural back. _Shemlen_ is the one word Cassandra recognizes. Cassandra glances back at Ellana and sees a pale, stricken expression cross over the lines of Ellana’s face. Ellana immediately glances over to Mahanon who looks equally shaken. 

They fight, and they fight, and they fight, and they fight. It is a miserable affair, really. The confusion and shock still remain in small traces on Ellana’s face. Cassandra wants to know what exactly the elf said, but the question leaves her when they finally arrive in front of a large, looming temple. The stone rises up and up and up, and ivy trails around the various bricks and stones comprising the walls.

Cassandra looks over to Ellana who carefully steps over to the temple and reverently brushes her hand over the stone statues and the ancient stones. Cole shuffles over and murmurs, “Stones, ancient and old, that sang throughout the ages. People used to come here to worship, people with faces and ears like yours. Hopeful, burning, bright, clear.”

“They are not the same as her,” Solas quietly says.

Ellana flinches at the sentence, but Cole nods. “They are not like her,” he agrees. “Because she chose to be marked not for what it used to mean but what it means to her now. Pride in the marks, hope for the future, a promise to protect, roots that spread deep and wide, _I will not let them down, I will protect them all,_ sting of the needle, prick of the blood.”

“Correct,” Ellana says. Her voice cracks on the last syllable, and she clears her throat. “I bear my vallaslin as a mark of what I once promised to my people, and I bear my lines with pride because they mean something different to my clan and my people now. Time changes traditions and legacies as surely as the sea erodes away at the shore. But that does not make the shore any less beautiful, and that does not diminish my people.”

She tips her head up to gaze at the temple, and for once, Cassandra sees the soft note of reverence and faith color Ellana’s face in a way she’s never seen before. It looks like the glow of faith that suffuses almost every Sister and Revered Mother, and it looks like the diffused tenderness of the Divines Cassandra has served before. It is faith, pure and simple, and that is what settles on Ellana’s face. Ellana lifts her hands up and bows down in supplication, palms up and face bent down. “I will perform the rites and rituals as they have once been taught to me,” she says with her gaze still directed down on the ground. “They may not be what they exactly were during the days of Arlathan, but the goddess deserves at least that much. We must give as many kindnesses as we can.”

“Were the gods ever kind to your people? They are gone now, are they not? They should not deserve such kindnesses from you.” Solas suddenly asks. The words slip out of his mouth in a rush, and his ears flush pink when Cassandra stares at him.

Ellana slowly gets up and blinks at Solas. “Divinity is never kind,” she finally says. “But we are the ones to give a touch of humanity to the gods through our worship, through our faith, through our perceptions of them.” She inclines her head towards Solas and says, “We are the ones responsible for imbuing their images and their legacies with what we choose to honor.”

“Prayer makes them more,” Cole says plaintively. Cassandra almost expects him to continue, but he shuffles his feet and fiddles with the wide brim of his hat instead of saying anything more.

They step into the temple on silent steps. Ellana starts to hum a low song that later trills into a high melody she sings with soft elvhen words. After a few bars of song, Mahanon joins his sister and harmonizes with the same elvhen words. The courtyards seem to be arranged into a set of interlocking circles that set into each other. Ellana pauses by a tall statue of a wolf and lays her hand against it so that her palm lays flat against it. She stops singing and regards the wolf with a peculiar look in her eye.

It’s then when a raven flaps through the courtyard on ebony wings and tumbles down to the ground in the shape of a woman. Morrigan.

_“Andaran atish’an,_ Morrigan,” Ellana says absently as she runs her fingers across the worn stone.

Morrigan regards her with her sharp, yellow-eyed gaze — too much like a raven, Cassandra thinks — and says, “The same to you as well, Inquisitor. I see you have found something…. Strange. Why would this be here?”

“Something wrong?” Solas asks. His tone is pointed and barbed to a startling degree. Cassandra didn’t know Solas and Morrigan were on such unpleasant terms.

“This statue depicts the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel,” Morrigan points out. “In elvhen tales, he tricks their gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time. Setting Fen’Harel in Mythal’s greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry.”

"And why do you presume to know so much about our legends, Lady Morrigan?" Mahanon bites back. "Were you raised in a Dalish clan? Or perhaps, did you refer back to books that the  _shemlen_ have written about our people for your knowledge?"

“Perhaps he is guarding her,” Ellana abruptly says. She looks over her shoulder at Morrigan, Mahanon, and Solas with her hand still placed flat against the statue. “We have charms and small, carved statues of Fen’Harel posted by the edges of our camp, eyes facing outward. It is meant as a guard, to keep the clan protected from evil spirits through the wolf’s dreadful gaze.” Finally, she lifts her hand off the stone and gestures to Solas and Mahanon. “You have seen the statues of wolves in the Dales and in the old ruins as well. Perhaps there is more meaning to it. Protection rather than betrayal, guardian instead of enemy.”

Solas, quite frankly, looks taken aback, but he clears his throat and tries to settle his composure. “For all your knowledge, Lady Morrigan, you seem to place much weight in the tales of legend. The wise do not mistake one for the other,” he says. “But Inquisitor, your hypothesis seems to have more weight than a simple children’s tale.”

Morrigan huffs out an irritated sigh and grumbles to herself under her breath, but Ellana casts one more long, scrutinizing gaze at the statue. Solas has to reach out and tug her wrist. Mahanon moves over to twine his fingers with his twin's other hand, and finally, Ellana allows herself to be returned back onto the path.

They move on, and Cassandra idly watches Morrigan, Solas, Mahanon and Ellana all debate and argue on the truth and the depth of elvhen legends. Cassandra can spot the growing irritation on Ellana’s and Mahanon's faces when Morrigan tries to recite elvhen legend back to her. There seems to be much more to elvhen mythology than Cassandra originally knew, and she listens to tales of Mythal, the Dread Wolf, and the rest of the pantheon with more interest than she originally expected. Beside her, Cole whistles some tune that Cassandra's never heard before, but it reminds her of the Lavellans' song but twisted in a different way.

Ellana leads the way, zigzagging through the long hall and gazing at all the tiles carefully inlaid into the temple. Even though there are some of Corypheus’s minions waiting for them, Ellana insists on solving the puzzles and the pathways left amongst the shrines while Cassandra and the others handle the rest. Mahanon stands beside Ellana and ensures that no enemy gets even close to her while she performs her rites. Soon, she finishes the rest of the rituals, and they progress further down the hall.

Ellana whispers, “What kinds of lives did they live here once? What kinds of songs did they sing, what sermons they preached, what spirits did they balance against the weight of the world?”

Cassandra reaches out to squeeze her hand and says, “I don’t know, but it must have been something grand.”

“Truly,” Ellana nods. “I cannot imagine what this place would have been like in its prime. Look at the tiles, at the mosaics, at the statues and the detail carved and etched and enchanted into the walls.” She reaches up and traces the tip of her finger across the branches of her vallaslin.

Cole sighs out, “Branches stretching out against open sky, marks of promises, wisdom to be learned. _I honor Mythal, the All-Mother, born of sea, deliverer of justice, and protector of sun and earth alike.”_

“I come to you with clear mind and open heart,” Ellana recites back. “I ask for your blessing, and I mark my face with your vallaslin. We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path.” The corners of her lips twist slightly as she finishes, “We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.”

“What was that?” Cassandra asks.

“The oath I swore when I first received my vallaslin,” Ellana admits. “We all choose different gods to honor and different reasons as to why. Mahanon chose Dirthamen, the god of secrets and knowledge, while I chose to honor Mythal, the goddess of protection and justice. And I... I promised to protect my clan.”

“A noble promise,” Solas says.

She nods and twists her hands together. Cassandra looks at Ellana and suddenly remembers the cold, quiet elf who sat there, chained and shackled with a glowing green mark on her hand. She used to wonder what made Ellana — who seemed to be such an integral part of her own clan, the _First_ of her clan — leave the Free Marches to go to the Conclave. Cassandra follows the lines of Ellana’s vallaslin with her eyes and thinks that Ellana’s vow must have played some sort of role in it.

They finally reach the end of the hall and in front of a large set of doors leading to what Cassandra suspects to be a larger chamber. Ellana seems satisfied with the rituals she’s already done, and she opens the door. It leads into a large, vaulted chamber with twin staircases at the very end of the chamber that leads up to a tiered floor. Statues line the walls as well, and the tiles show different images inlaid on the floor.

Ellana carefully walks inside and slowly turns around as she moves forward until she’s walking backward but still moving forward towards the stairs. Beside Cassandra, Mahanon's eyes narrow, and he lifts one hand up. Ellana stops walking and cocks her head to the side, waiting for Mahanon to speak. Mahanon steps forward for only a few paces before he says, “There are shadows watching us,” she quietly says. His right ear flicks back, and his expression darkens.

“Intruder, state your purpose,” a loud voice rings out behind Ellana. Cassandra drags her gaze up and sees a hooded elf with the same gleaming, bronze armor that she’s seen on the other elves. The vallaslin on his face looks similar to Ellana’s, but there’s something different about it that Cassandra can’t quite identify.

Behind her, Cassandra can hear the sound of footsteps in unison. She turns to see a line of elves in the same armor with arrows pointed at them. Each one mirrors the stance of the one beside them perfectly and has their arrows angled perfectly. These must be the shadows that Ellana sensed.

He folds his arms as he regards them all, but his gaze hones in on Ellana. “You are different than the other invaders. You have the features of those who call themselves elvhen,” he says. His eyes settle on the Anchor glowing a soft green from Ellana’s hand and says, “You bear the mark of magic which is… Familiar. How has this come to pass? What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

“I am Ellana, First of Clan Lavellan and Inquisitor and Herald, and I am here to protect the temple. There is a being who calls himself Corypheus. He seeks to destroy the world, and he wishes to take this temple for his own as part of his plans. They are my enemies as well as yours, _lethallin,”_ Ellana calls out.

The elf’s face twists into a strange grimace when Ellana says _lethallin._ “I am called Abelas,” he finally says. “We are Sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wait only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion.” His grimace warps into a sneer as he bites out, “I know what you truly seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink from the Vir Abelasan.” He gestures over to Morrigan who bristles. “It is not for you. It is not for any of you.”

“I do not seek to steal the Well,” Ellana says firmly. “I am here to defend the temple of our goddess from those who would use it for harm.” She glances behind her at the Sentinels behind them and says, “My people — _our_ people — did not know this temple nor its inhabitants existed and survived. I speak for the Dalish when I say that we would have done our best to protect this temple as well.”

“Our people?” Abelas sneers. “The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? You are not _my_ people.”

Once again, Ellana and Mahanon flinch, but Ellana does not move from her stance. Instead, she lifts her chin even higher and says, “Mock us if you will, but we are the last of your people. We are united by our history and our legacies from the days when the _shemlen_ destroyed Arlathan.”

Abelas shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “The _shemlen_ did not destroy Arlathan. We elvhen warred upon ourselves,” he says coldly. “By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over. We awaken only when called and each time, we find the world to be more foreign than before. It is meaningless. We endure. The Vir Abelasan must be preserved.”

Ellana blinks and opens her mouth, but no words come out. Morrigan moves forward and grasps Ellana’s shoulder as she says, “That is the Well of Sorrows, Inquisitor. The Vir Abelasan. That is what Corypheus pursues and what we must obtain before him.”

Mahanon surges forward to tear Morrigan's hand off of Ellana's shoulders. He shoots her an angry glare, but Ellana does not stir. Morrigan huffs out a frustrated sigh and glances back at Solas. “You have studied the ancient myths and seen the days of Arlathan in your dreams,” she says sharply. “What say you?”

Solas narrows his eyes at Morrigan and spreads his hands wide. “What shall I say?” he asks Morrigan with a curling undertone to his voice. “Shall I sway him from a millennia of service by virtue of our shared blood? He clings to all that remains of his world because he lacks the power to restore it.”

Ellana dips her head into a facsimile of a bow and says softly and almost painfully, “Then… What we have been told and taught is incorrect. No matter. Time moves on, and so does our people.” She lifts her hand up and traces her index finger over the branches on her cheek. “You are marked just as I am but with an older style. That must mean you were bound here, bound to her service, bound to this aging temple despite the passing of the years. Whether it was against your will or not, I cannot tell, but I will tell you once again. We come here in peace. We knew this place was sacred, and we have respected it as best we could. I honor Mythal as well, and I would do no such thing as disobeying or disrespecting her will.”

Abelas gazes at Ellana for a long and heavy moment of silence before he finally says, “I believe you. Trespassers you are, but you have followed rites of petition. You have shown respect to Mythal. If these others are enemies of yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done, you shall be permitted to depart… And never return.”

Solas exhales heavily. “This is our goal, is it not? There is no reason to fight these Sentinels,” he says. Relief pours thick and heavy from his voice, and when Cassandra glances over, she sees a brief flicker of hope in his eyes.

However, Morrigan clears her throat sharply and says, “Consider carefully. You must stop Corypheus, yes, but you may also need the Well for your own.”

Abelas glares down at Morrigan and snaps, “You will be guided to those you seek. As for the Vir Abelasan, it shall not be despoiled. Even if I must destroy it myself.”

Cassandra glimpses Morrigan’s pupils constrict as she cries out, “No!” The witch takes a step forward with desperation bright and obvious on her face. Then, without any hesitation, Morrigan sheds her shape and takes flight as a raven.

“Morrigan!” Ellana sharply calls. But it is too late. Morrigan’s raven form is long out of sight, and Abelas turns on his heel to sprint out of the chamber.

Cassandra glances back to see that the Sentinels haven’t moved a single inch. In fact, half of them have their arrows nocked towards Morrigan and the other half have their arrows aimed at Ellana herself. Ellana looks back as well and says something quick and darting in elvhen that makes them reluctantly lower their bows.

“Hurry,” she says desperately. “We must catch up with Morrigan and Abelas.”

She runs towards the stairs and ascends up the steps two at a time. Unlike before, Ellana pays no heed to the mosaics and the statues that lie further within the temple. Instead, she puts all of her focus towards pursuing Abelas and Morrigan. Another Sentinel peels off from the shadows and runs with them, guiding them with brief commands issued in elvhen. Ellana only nods and follows her with a renewed speed.

The Sentinel guides them through a secret passageway, but through one arch halfway through the passage, Cassandra glimpses some Red Templars fighting Sentinels. Ellana stops in her tracks and gapes at the behemoth who flings a Sentinel away like a rag doll. Cassandra sees the expression on Ellana’s face grow cold and sharp as silverite, and Ellana leaps through the arch without hesitation.

She flings her magic over the Sentinels, blanketing them in barriers, and screams, _“Mythal’enaste!”_ Then, she pounds her staff into the ground to summon up a string of fire mines on the ground that burst into flames upon contact with the templars.

The Sentinels pause only for a moment before they chorus back, _“Mythal’enaste!”_

Mahanon follows his sister without hesitation and fluidly shapes fire and ice around the arrows in his quiver as he unslings his bow from his back. Like the others, he calls out, _"Mythal'enaste!"_  He dives for cover and starts shooting arrows that leave trails of magic in their wake and explode upon contact. Each arrow is carefully aimed around Ellana until a circle of leftover ice and charred soot rings around Ellana.

Cole drifts closer to Cassandra and whispers, “Words of a legacy, words of a blessing.” After that, he follows Ellana out of the arch and into the fray.

Solas watches Ellana go with such a deep and melancholy look in his eyes, and he slings his staff off his back as if it were a burden. He allows magic to prickle up and pool in his palm before he quietly murmurs, _“Mythal’enaste.”_ He says the words with pain in his voice, and he tosses the magic out onto the battlefield to add his own barrier atop Ellana’s. He wearily exits, and Cassandra quickly follows.

Battle is a routine thing that Cassandra follows to the tempo. By this point, she’s fought enough red templars to know their patterns and tendencies. Although each templar tends to have their own fighting style depending on where they were trained, the red lyrium affects them in similar manners. Most tend to lurch too much to the right first before they overcompensate their movement towards the left to make up for the loss in balance. If the red lyrium is visible on their skin or if they are in the behemoth stage of the transformation, Cassandra finds that they invest too much energy into their strikes. Once they commit to a strike, it takes them valuable time to raise their swords and shields up again to strike once more.

Cassandra follows these habits with a sure and steady eye, and she uses the different openings to cut them all down. When the last templar falls, she looks up to see Ellana hurry over to the Sentinels to press healing magic into their wounds. They try to shake her off, but she stubbornly remains by their side until their wounds are healed over. Some Sentinels refuse even the slightest touch of her magic, so Ellana pulls out her precious regeneration and healing potions from her pockets and passes it to them. Cassandra can’t bring herself to tell Ellana to stop because it’s just so fundamentally _her._ Cassandra doesn’t think she can muster up the nerve to tell her to stop helping others.

They return back to the secret passageway, and the Sentinel regards Ellana with a touch more respect than she did before. Now, the Sentinel guides them to certain pockets where the violence is heaviest, and like before, Ellana always stops to save as many as she can. They arrive too late only once. She falls to her knees beside the bodies once the templars are dead, and she silently weeps over their bodies. Over their bodies, Ellana shapes out symbols and traces out glyphs in the air that Cassandra does not understand.

It’s too reminiscent of Ellana in the Fallow Mire or in the wreckage of the battlefields that they’ve fought on before. Ellana carries a bag of seeds with her to tuck into the pockets of the dead. It is related to some sort of Dalish funeral rite that Cassandra isn’t too familiar with, but she suspects that it is the same one that motivated Ellana to weave seeds and the acorn into the charm she made for Cassandra. Likewise, Ellana gently eases a small acorn into the fallen Sentinels’ hands before she closes their eyes and whispers one final prayer.

Their Sentinel guard watches Ellana with a strange expression twisting her features. But when she catches Cassandra looking at her, she instantly smoothes her face away into an impassive mask.

Finally, they reach a large, expansive chamber that is exposed to the open air. Ivy trails up and down the columns and the walls. Abelas is already there, sprinting up stairs that magically appear under his feet as he ascends. Above his head, a raven circles around before it swoops down and lands in the shape of Morrigan.

Ellana grits her teeth and sprints faster than Cassandra’s ever seen her run. She almost trips and falls in her haste to get up the stairs, but Cole suddenly materializes by her side to help her up. Ever since Cole turned more into a spirit than a boy, he’s been barely tangible. _Barely human,_ part of Cassandra’s mind tells her, but she squashes down that thought as fast as she can. Cole has proven himself to be more than a faithful companion for Ellana and the others no matter how strange his words or peculiar his mannerisms may be.

Finally, they arrive in front of a large, circular pool filled with silvery water. A large, arched eluvian lies behind the pool, and mist from the pool seems to rise up to wreathe the eluvian in old magic. Cassandra’s Seeker senses prickle when she reaches out to sense the pool, and somehow… Somehow, the water feels _hungry._

Morrigan and Abelas are already in the middle of a debate, and their voices threaten to rise even higher with anger. Morrigan finally whirls around to face Ellana and snarls out, “ You heard his parting words, Inquisitor. He seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows.”

“So the sanctum is despoiled at last,” Abelas sneers back.

Morrigan hisses, angry and low, “You would’ve destroyed the Well yourself, given the chance.”

“To keep it from your grasping fingers!” Abelas angrily snaps back. “Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving!”

“Fool!” Morrigan spits back. The edges of her outline flicker in and out, and Cassandra thinks she sees the shapes of bears, ravens, giant spiders, and more within the depths of Morrigan’s shape. “You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows!” Morrigan adds for good measure.

“Enough,” Ellana says, quiet in all her angry fury. “Silence.”

Morrigan and Abelas turn to see Ellana’s stormy expression and the blood still spattered across her armor and her hands. Morrigan opens her mouth to say something, but Ellana utters darkly, “I said, _enough._ Do you not understand the meaning of silence when I ask for it?”

She gestures to the Well behind Morrigan and says, “We came here to stop Corypheus, nothing more and nothing less. We did not come to desecrate a temple of one of my people’s gods, much less the one I promised to honor for my entire life.”

“The Well clearly offers power, Inquisitor,” Morrigan wheedles. “If that power can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

Abelas scoffs behind Morrigan and asks, “Do you even know what you ask?” He gestures to the Vir Abelasan and says, “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on through this. All that we were. All that we knew. Take the Vir Abelasan, and it would be lost forever.”

Ellana’s expression softens from its stormy fury to a softer, gentler thing of grief. “This cannot be easy, holding onto what is left,” she says. “The weight of _uthenera_ and the duty you must bear _…_ I cannot imagine it.”

“No, you cannot,” Abelas agrees. “Each time we awaken, it slips further from our grasp.”

Finally, Solas clears his throat to speak up. “There are other places, friend,” he says, pointing to the entrance from whence they came. “Other duties Your people yet linger.”

Abelas narrows his eyes on Solas and gives him a quick once-over. “Elvhen such as you?” he asks.

Solas nods. “Yes. Such as I.”

That makes Mahanon turn and rake over Solas with a scrutinizing gaze, but his attention draws back towards Abelas. The Sentinel sighs, “You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny.” He points towards the eluvian and says, “I suspect your Corypheus wants the key to the eluvian and to the rest of the Crossroads. The only way to unlock the eluvian is to partake of the Vir Abelasan.”

“I will not take it without your permission,” Ellana says.

Abelas laughs a slow, bitter laugh that does not shake the old aching weariness from his eyes. “One does not obtain permission,” he murmurs. “One obtains the right.” He turns his back towards the Vir Abelasan and paces towards the steps as he says, “The Vir Abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. Brave it if you must, but know you this: you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

“Bound?” Morrigan echoes. She mockingly asks, “To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?”

Abelas does not spare Morrigan another glance, but he says, “Bound, as we are bound. The choice is yours. Drink from it, but reap your own consequences.”

“Very well,” Morrigan says. She draws herself up to her full height and says, “Then, I shall drink from it.”

“What do you mean?” Ellana suspiciously asks. She rounds on Morrigan and repeats, “Tell me, Lady Morrigan, what exactly do you mean when you say that _you_ will drink from the Vir Abelasan? It is a history and a long legacy that belongs to _my_ people, not yours.”

Morrigan shakes her head with a condescending smirk and says, “Inquisitor Lavellan, you do not understand the implications of the action you wish to take.” She gestures to herself and continues, “I have studied the arcane arts for years, pored through the histories and legacies of ages past, and prepared myself to take the Well. You cannot possibly bear this burden.”

Solas steps forward and pleads, “Inquisitor, please, listen to me. For once, this is one thing Lady Morrigan and I can both agree on. Do not drink from the Well. _Please.”_ His voice breaks, and he casts his gaze aside. Then, he says something in elvhen that Cassandra cannot comprehend.

Ellana moves over to grasp Solas’s hand and turns his gaze back onto her. “Solas, _ir abelas,”_ she says gently. “But I cannot. I do not think it is right or proper for something from my people’s legacies to go to anyone else other than my people.”

“Inquisitor, you will _ruin_ yourself,” Morrigan finally snaps. “And what will become of the Inquisition should your mind collapse from the sheer weight of the Well?!”

Fear grows cold and heavy in Cassandra’s heart, and she moves over to tug Ellana towards her. “Is she telling the truth?” she asks with dread dripping from her words. “Ellana, my heart, my love, I’m… I’m scared for you.” She chokes in a long, shuddering breath before she asks, “Please don’t drink from it.”

Something in Ellana’s expression crumbles when she sees the way Cassandra breaks over her words. Ellana lifts her hand to smooth her thumbs over Cassandra’s cheeks and over her scars “Oh, _vhenan,”_ she breathes out. She leans in to gently kiss Cassandra before she whispers against Cassandra’s lips, “I must.”

She pulls away from Cassandra. Before she can pace back towards Morrigan, Mahanon catches her by her wrist. "Are you sure?" he asks. Ellana looks back into her twin's face and nods. Mahanon lets out a disapproving huff that's tinged with despair and says, "I cannot change your mind, can I not?" 

"No, you cannot," Ellana murmurs.

"Stubborn," Mahanon says fondly. "More stubborn than the Dread Wolf himself." He leans to touch his forehead against Ellana's forehead and whispers something to her that Cassandra can't hear. When Ellana pulls away, both of their eyes are wet with tears. They wipe each other's eyes and laugh. Truly, in that moment, they look like two halves of the same whole. Mahanon reaches over to squeeze Ellana's Anchored hand and says solemnly, "I will take your pain if need be."

"I do not want you to," Ellana says. 

Mahanon grips onto Ellana's hand even tighter when she says it, and he repeats again, "I will take your pain if need be. We are  _nas'falon, nas'taron,_ two halves of the same soul. I will take it if it means that you will survive this."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Ellana murmurs. "But I am stubborn. More than Fen'Harel, as you so often like to remind me of." She pulls away from Mahanon and paces towards Morrigan as she continues, "I am stubborn enough to keep them from crushing my mind, Lady Morrigan.” She lifts her left hand up and allows the Anchor to sputter green light over them. “If I can keep one relic of my people’s gods under control, then I believe I can harbor this Well,” she says. “When this war is done and over, I can return it back to the Temple and to Mythal’s guardians where it was originally from.”

“You would take it only to bring it back?” Abelas asks suddenly.

Ellana looks over at Abelas, still standing by the steps. “If that is what is necessary, then yes,” she says. “This Well is not mine. As much as I wish that your knowledge and the knowledge within the Well was shared with my people, that does not automatically make me the rightful owner of it. I do not aspire to godhood nor do I need apotheosis.” She bends her head down and spreads her arms open wide as she continues, “I only want to save my people. That includes both you and my friends here. That includes my clan as well as the other clans and the elves in the alienages. That includes humans and dwarves and the qunari.”

Ellana slowly lifts her head up, and Cassandra can see the iron resilience blazing bright in Ellana’s eyes. “My people are the people of Thedas, and I will do what I must to defeat Corypheus because he wants to doom them all,” Ellana utters, loud and clear. “I chose the marks of Mythal when I came of age, and I did not do so lightly.”

“You are… Baffling,” Abelas says after a long period of silence.

A wry and melancholy smile curls its way around Ellana’s lips as she says, “I have been told that before, yes. Will you let me drink, sentinel of sorrow?”

Abelas sighs and moves back over to Ellana. “Who exactly are you?” he asks wearily.

Ellana blinks once and then twice before she softly says, “I am Ellana, First of Clan Lavellan, Inquisitor, Herald, and mage of the Free Marches and the open plains. Nothing more, nothing less.” She reaches out and shapes out symbols of welcome as she continues, “I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan who chose to bear the marks of Mythal because I honored her.” She pauses to glance over at Solas. Her gaze remains on Solas instead of Abelas as she says, “And not for the reasons vallaslin was so prevalent among my people during your age. Do not mistake my intentions as greed or pride.”

Abelas reaches out to trace the branches on Ellana’s face and shapes out another symbol for her. “Very well, Ellana of Clan Lavellan, of Inquisition, of Thedas,” he says. “Drink from the Well, but do not break the promises you have made. Do not forget who you are.”

_“Ma serannas,”_ Ellana says as she dips into a bow.

Then, she takes the first step towards the Well of Sorrows. The mist starts to curl around her ankles, almost as if it was pulling her in towards the very heart of the Well. The water laps up against the rim of the pool, eager to brush against Ellana’s skin. Ellana does not falter, but she does pause at the very edge of the water.

She inhales and exhales: short, soft, and susurrant puffs of breath that seem to echo against the silver waters. “I honor Mythal,” Ellana begins. Her voice is reverent, and she speaks in an easy cadence. “I honor Mythal,” she repeats once more. “the All-Mother, born of sea, deliverer of justice, and protector of sun and earth alike. I come to you with clear mind and open heart. I ask for your blessing, and I mark my face with your vallaslin. I come to you now to drink from your waters, to drink from the Vir Abelasan, and I ask for your protection and your guidance before I partake. We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path.”

One more breath. One more sigh.

“We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.”

Then, Ellana takes the plunge into the hungry waters of the Well of Sorrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while since i updated this fic, but to make up for it, it's an extra long chapter! in fact, it was so long that i chopped it up and put some bits towards the next chapter. i was kinda stuck on this chapter for a while, but i'm glad that it's done and out now!
> 
> also, i tried researching addiction and how drugs impact the brain in order to depict a more accurate representation of red lyrium / lyrium addiction? it was interesting to read, and i ended up mixing a bit of neuroscience with the animations in-game for the final result :") 
> 
> anyhow, hope you liked it!! let me know what your thoughts on the new chapter was, and i'll do my best to get the next chapter out a lot faster than this one! <3 <3 <3


	13. wellspring

Mahanon crumples to the ground the minute Ellana enters the Well of Sorrows.

He clutches his hands to his ears and opens his mouth in a wide O, silently screaming into the abyss. Solas hurries to Mahanon’s side and tries to press in healing magic into Mahanon’s skin, but it is to no avail. Mahanon curls up into a ball, and Cassandra sees the way his expression twists into unimaginable pain.

Cole slips by his side and whispers, “Voices loud and ringing, filtering over the soul, over the mind. _This is so much worse than the Anchor ever felt._ Gods mighty and absent but terrible nonetheless, fear and age and time and glory. _Do not take my sister, take me instead. I will take her pain if that will let her survive.”_

Cassandra tears her gaze from Mahanon to look up at Ellana. She has the misty water cupped in her hands and takes a sip. Almost immediately. the water bursts around her like some sort of ethereal corona, and she’s lifted into the air. The water rises and spirals, and likewise, Ellana’s body is moved in the same way. As she revolves, Cassandra can see silver running through Ellana’s veins and coloring the ends of her dark hair. She hovers in the center of the vortex, and the water swirls around her like a deadly whirlpool. Ellana’s eyes are still open, but they are flat and moon-blanched. From this distance, Cassandra can see no color: no brown, no green, only silver. Ellana’s vallaslin also glows a pale, sickly light that is the same color of the silver water.

Cassandra’s fear is now hot and heavy in her chest, and she wants to sprint towards Ellana to shield her from this strange danger. But there is nothing she can do. The only thing she can do is watch her lover get consumed by this strange Well. She can feel the surge of power and the hungry call of the Well through her Seeker senses.

Then, Ellana screams. It is a high-pitched cry that resounds like a clarion among the mist and fog that swathes around her body. It pierces through Cassandra’s ears and cuts through her senses like a sharp and deadly knife. But after that, the tides wrapping around Ellana flare out into large, ethereal wings that are scaled and webbed like a dragon’s. The silver fades, and the green of her Anchor sputters back to life, glowing brighter than ever. The Well returns Ellana back to the center of the now-empty Well, and her water wings flare out on her back.

Ellana lands on the ground in a kneeling position, as if she were getting ready to pray. Cassandra watches as the silver recedes from Ellana’s veins and vallaslin. Slowly and painfully, Ellana gets back up. She steps out of the pool, and her footsteps are nearly silent against the tiles. Her eyes remain flat disks of silver like the twin moons in the night sky.

Morrigan gapes at Ellana, and quietly, ever so quietly, she whispers, “I did not expect it to be like that.”

Ellana pays no heed to Morrigan. Instead, she regards Abelas with a solemn expression and says something in elvhen. He slowly gets down on one knee. Cassandra can’t tell if it’s due to deference or reluctance, but Abelas kneels. Ellana turns her attention over to Solas and says a single word that makes him flinch. A mirthless, cold smile crosses Ellana’s face as she inclines her head towards him.

Now, Ellana turns to Mahanon, Cole, and Cassandra. The cold smile on her face freezes, and her lips twist into a frown. The silver from her eyes fades enough to reveal a hint of the brown and green that Cassandra is more familiar with. She bends down to cup Mahanon’s face in her hands. She tips her brother’s face up to face her own, and she leans her forehead against his. Mahanon’s body slackens, and the painful tension releases from his shoulders and his arms. She murmurs something in elvhen to him, and he replies back in a voice that cracks and wavers along the edges.

Satisfied with whatever he said, Ellana stands up and moves towards Cole and Cassandra. “Too many voices,” Cole says shakily. “I can’t hear anything from you anymore.”

“That is alright,” Ellana says. She sounds too distant, and it scares Cassandra. “I am more than the voices.”

Cassandra carefully reaches out to caress Ellana’s cheek. Ellana’s skin feels bracingly cold, and it frightens her. But her touch seems to chase some of the silver away that still clings to Ellana. Encouraged by that, Cassandra pulls Ellana into an embrace and tries to warm her up.

Ellana chuckles and says, “I am sorry if I am too cold, Cassandra. We will try to make this body used to you again.” Cassandra’s fear stills her hands, and Ellana blinks. “Oh,” she says. “Perhaps that was not the right thing to say.”

“Ellana, is that still you?” Cassandra whispers.

She gazes into Ellana’s eyes and watches the silver drain out. The former warmth returns to Ellana’s skin, and Cassandra’s never been more grateful to see the dark nut-brown of Ellana’s normal irises again. “I will always be myself,” Ellana murmurs. “It was only a matter of time. I am sorry for making you wait for me, _vhenan.”_

Cassandra would weep if it weren’t for their desperate necessity of time. But she is selfish enough to embrace Ellana tightly and scatter kisses over her face. Relief washes over the fear that froze her heart, and she lets a few sobs wrack through her chest. “Never do something like that again,” she cries against Ellana’s skin. “Never make me watch you needlessly sacrifice yourself again. You are more valuable than any Well, than any eluvian, than anything else in the world. _Never_ do that again.”

Ellana cradles Cassandra and rubs soothing circles on Cassandra’s back. Cassandra can’t feel Ellana’s touch as well through her armor, but the pure and simple meaning of it is like a balm to Cassandra’s sore heart. She finally pulls away and studies Ellana’s face again. Gone is the silver from her vallaslin and eyes. _Thank the Maker that she’s alive,_ Cassandra fervently thinks. _Thank her Creators that they let her survive this._

She would pray to any god, Dalish or human, if it meant that Ellana would be safe and sound.

Cassandra opens her mouth to say something more, but a crashing sound behind them startles her. She turns around to see Corypheus and several red templars crash through the temple doors. Even from this distance, she can see and feel his incandescent fury.

Cassandra looks back at Ellana who sets her face into an expression of stormy anger. “Enough,” she says quietly. “He has done enough to this temple. He has done enough to desecrate my goddess and the harbor of my people here.”

She lifts her hands up; one glows green and the other glows silver. The temple walls respond with the same kind of light, and the mosaics peel themselves off the walls. Facsimiles of painted dragons and ancient sentinels emerge from the mosaics to crush down the red templars. Corypheus tries to swat them off with his long, clawed hands, but his fingers pass only through light.

Ellana glances over at Abelas and says, “As the new bearer of the Vir Abelasan, I free you, Abelas, and the rest of your brethren from servitude to the Temple of Mythal. Let Mythal’s scales of justice tip in your favor, and may your fates be in your hands to control now. You have done much to make our Lady proud, and so, I allow you the gift of having your own will and your own lives again. Return to uthenera if you wish or find other harbors to call home.” Ellana tilts her head to the side and says, “Skyhold will always be a refuge for you should you need it. For now, I will wake the temple itself to defend itself. Take your wounded and take your weary to safety.”

She gestures to the eluvian which glitters and gleams with magic. It fills with the same fog that Cassandra saw in the Well, and the glass no longer seems quite as tangible as before. “The eluvian is open for your use,” she says. “And for the others, go through the eluvian first. I will join you later.”

“No,” Mahanon steadily says. “Not without you, sister. I will not abandon you.”

“Neither will I,” Cassandra says. “We go together or not at all.”

The wings still behind Ellana’s back twitch. She considers their words before she turns her back on Corypheus and rejoins them. “Then let us leave this temple together,” she says. “The old spirits of the temple cannot be hurt or corrupted by Corypheus. Let him struggle and lose against a world that he does not understand.”

She leads the way towards the eluvian and crosses through the empty pool. The wings made of water evaporate away into silver mist. Mahanon is the first one to follow her, stepping gingerly down the steps of the pool. When nothing happens to him, Cassandra hurries to join him. Cole, Abelas, and Solas follow after her.

“Inquisitor,” Abelas calls out. Ellana glances back, and Abelas says, “I will leave this temple through other means. I choose to remain with my brothers and sisters. But… Thank you for this gift.” He smiles wryly. “Some of my brethren will consider this a curse rather than a gift, but I appreciate the offer of choice in this matter. You have proven yourself more worthy in the span of a few minutes than I originally believed. _Mythal’enaste.”_

_“Mythal’enaste,_ Abelas,” Ellana says. “May we meet again.”

Abelas turns and hurries down the stairs towards some other passageway. Ellana nudges Mahanon towards the eluvian, and he plunges through the mirror without hesitation. The others follow, but Cassandra lingers. She gazes at Corypheus as he flails and swats at the temple’s spirit guardians.

_“Vhenan,_ you must hurry,” Ellana urges. “We do not have much time.”

Cassandra nods and steps through the eluvian. It feels like she’s walking through water, but she never gets wet. Magic slides cool and slick across her senses, and she can feel the magic lapping up against her like waves against a rocky shore.

The first person that Cassandra looks for is Ellana after she enters the eluvian, but it seems like ages pass before Ellana passes through the eluvian. Ellana has a peculiar smile that stretches her lips open a touch too wide, and her irises are frosted over with silver once more.

“Corypheus will not gain access to the eluvians or the Crossroads,” Ellana says. “We have made sure of that.”

“Ellana, my love,” Cassandra tries. “Is that you speaking?”

“Perhaps,” Ellana murmurs. “We forgot that you do not enjoy hearing us like this. Let us return to Skyhold. This battle is over.”

“Is it?” Cassandra challenges. “Are you still Ellana?”

“Oh, we will always be Ellana,” Ellana laughs. “We are simply a little more than Ellana now. Calm yourself. Equilibrium takes time to achieve.” Her left eye turns completely silver, and she winks so that only the right eye is visible. “We do not have much time until your lover silences us once more. But rest assured, we will be balanced soon.”

She pauses. Blinks. Tilts her head left to right. And then, a slow smile spreads across her face. “She sings to us in our head to soothe us,” Ellana murmurs. “A kind soul you have here. We will quiet now. Settle. Take your leaf-eared lover home, human.”

Ellana then collapses in Cassandra’s arms, and Cassandra cradles her close. Then, she slings Ellana up in her arms and slowly begins to plod back to the others.

Solas and Morrigan look her over, and Cassandra glares at them. “Are you still angry now?” she snaps. “Angry that you didn’t have your chance to drink from the Well?” She trembles from the pure fear and dread and anger that washes over her heart. “I would have gladly have you drink from the Well if it meant that Ellana didn’t have to,” she hisses.

She does not wait for Morrigan’s reply as she shoulders past the two.

Mahanon staggers towards her. He no longer has his hands clamped over his ears, and he says softly, “She shut me out. I cannot hear the voices in her head anymore.” He casts his gaze away. “I do not know whether to feel relieved or angry about it.”

Cole shuffles along beside Mahanon, and he murmurs, “Voices angry and loud before song slips over to quiet them, _elgara vallas, da’len, melava somniar, mala taren aravas, ara ma’desen melar.”_

Mahanon’s expression twists painfully. “She is singing our mother’s song,” he says. “An old lullaby. _Elgara vallas, da’len, melava somniar. Mala taren aravas, ara ma’desen melar._ I think the closest translation in Common would be ‘Sun sets, little one, time to dream. Your mind journeys, but I will hold you here.”

He holds his arms out to Cassandra and asks quietly, “May I?”

Cassandra is inclined to refuse, but Mahanon looks so lost and so agonized that Cassandra passes Ellana to him. He stumbles under her weight but quickly rights himself. Solas tries to help him, but Mahanon snarls out something in elvhen so viciously that Solas takes a step back. Mahanon keeps his twin sister close and begins to make his way back to camp.

As he walks, he sings to his sister, sweetly and softly. _“Iras ma ghilas, da’len, ara ma’nedan ashir. Dirthara lothlenan’as bal emma mala dir,”_ he sings. His voice is strained from the efforts of carrying his sister as well as some of the wounds he’s sustained in battle, but he continues nonetheless.

Cassandra watches Mahanon go before she turns to Solas with a questioning look in her eye. Solas follows Mahanon with his eyes before he sighs and bends his head. He does not say a single word but remains there, bowed and almost broken. Cole drifts to Solas’s side and says, “Pride hot and heavy in his chest, _ar lasa mala revas,_ tearing and ripping and burning.”

“I know, Cole,” Solas says wearily. He straightens up and repeats, “I know.”

He follows after Mahanon and falls in step with Cassandra. Above them, a raven takes flight, overtaking them with a speed granted to them through wings. Mahanon continues to sing, and Solas abruptly asks, “Have you learned more elvhen since your first lessons with me, Seeker?”

“No, I have not,” Cassandra admits.

Something crosses over Solas’s expression, and Cassandra can’t quite tell what it is before it flickers out of sight. “Very well,” he says. “I will translate Mahanon’s song for you. ‘Where will you go, little one, lost to me in sleep? Seek truth in a forgotten land deep within your heart. Never fear, little one, wherever you shall go. Follow my voice. I will call you home.’” Solas’s voice cracks on the last word, but he repeats, “‘I will call you home.’ A lovely sentiment.”

“And she’s singing that?” Cassandra asks. “In her head.”

“I assume so, yes,” Solas says. “I cannot imagine how many voices she must be hearing in her head. Now, she carries the weight of several legacies in her mind.”

Cassandra continues to walk, but she falls silent. She’s scared. She doesn’t know if Ellana is quite Ellana anymore. But she follows Mahanon and the sound of his song back to camp and back to Skyhold.

By the time they return to Skyhold, Ellana is conscious again. However, her eyes unfocus from time to time. Sometimes, she speaks out loud to herself, almost always in elvhen. Cassandra asked Solas to translate once, and he reluctantly translated it for her. “The world is different now, newer now,” Ellana apparently said. “Not as bright in your days, but even beautiful things grow under shade.”

Ellana’s eyes are also greener than ever before. Cassandra doesn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand, she’s grateful that they’re not silver again. But conversely, it feels like another indicator that Ellana is slowly losing parts of herself. Ellana’s skin is thinner, almost paper-thin, too. When Ellana curls up beside Cassandra, Cassandra can see Ellana’s veins too clearly through her skin. They shimmer with hidden magic, and her entire body thrums with too much power now. Ellana also used to eat constantly: nibbling on mint and elfroot, secretly roasting chestnuts in her hands, hiding biscuits in her pockets. Now, Ellana barely eats, and she loses her appetite too frequently.

They return to Skyhold, and Lavellan does not stop waking up with a scream that unlaces her throat wide open. Cassandra does not stop worrying. The dark circles deepen beneath Ellana, and some kind of unearthly energy seems to drive her forward despite her lack of sleep. Ellana remains like that for a week, but one day, Ellana stirs in their bed with enough force that it wakes Cassandra up.

Cassandra blearily opens her eyes and asks, “My love, what’s the matter?”

Ellana’s voice dreamily replies back, “We are called.”

That’s enough for Cassandra to bolt up and look at Ellana. Silver bleeds through Ellana’s irises until none of the original brown can be seen, and her vallaslin starts to glow a soft silver. It starts at the tips of the stylized branches before the light curls its way around Ellana’s eyes and frames her cheeks.

“We are called by the Lady,” Ellana repeats in the same hazy tone. “We are called through the eluvian, called through the Veil, called through the dreams. The Lady summons us. The Lady is awake.”

Oh, that doesn’t sound good at all. Cassandra tries reaching out for Ellana and finds that Ellana’s skin is ice cold. Ellana’s eyes narrow, and she snaps, “You may follow us, but you may not stop us. The Lady calls, and we must answer.”

Cassandra grips onto Ellana tighter, ignoring the way that the cold seeps into her own skin. “Then, at the very least, let me follow you,” she pleads. “Let me put on some armor, let me help you with your own, let us take at least two of our friends in case something goes wrong.”

“The Lady calls,” Ellana hesitates.

Cassandra leans in to brush her lips over Ellana’s forehead and whispers, “But I would like to keep you safe, my love.” Her tongue stumbles over the next few words, but still, she says, “And you cannot obey your Lady or the voices in your head if you are dead.”

“You are correct,” Ellana murmurs. “Then, we shall wait for only a few moments. Not more, not less. The Lady’s daughter has already begun her chase through the Crossroads on quick wings. We must catch up.”

Cassandra nods painfully before she gets up to latch her armor on. Ellana fumbles with her clothes and the pieces of ironbark that comprise her armor. It’s almost as though she’s lost her memory of this, and she runs her fingers over the different ties with a bemused look. “They changed some of the style,” Cassandra hears her say. “Not quite the same ties but still the same silhouette. Rough-hewn instead of being sung out of the trees.”

Cassandra moves over to help Ellana put her armor on. She’s done this enough times now to do a relatively decent job. She looks into Ellana’s eyes once more when she hooks on Ellana’s breastplate, but she sees only silver. The person — or perhaps, people in the plural sense —  that peers out of Ellana’s eyes is not the same Ellana that Cassandra knows and loves.

Cassandra takes Ellana out, and as they go, she stops by the nearest places that she can find some of their companions. They pass by the library in their haste to the gazebo, and Cassandra forces Ellana to stop by the library. As expected, Solas is sleeping in the rotunda. Cassandra roughly shakes him awake, and he opens his eyes, hazy and weary.

“You must come with us,” Cassandra says. “Get your traveling robes on, any armor that you wish, but you only have a minute.” She glances back to see Ellana impatiently tapping her foot. “She will not wait any longer for you or for me,” Cassandra warns.

Solas blinks at her, still half-asleep, and Cassandra hisses out, “The Well of Sorrows is active in her again.”

That wakes up Solas completely, and he springs into action. He throws on a cloak and a thicker armored vest over his simple tunic. His staff is quickly slung over his back, and he snatches up his pack as he runs out of the rotunda towards Ellana.

Ellana looks up from her impatient tapping to see Solas, and a slow smile spreads over her lips. _“On dhea, fen,”_ she greets him. “It has been a long time since we have seen you.”

Solas flinches from the words, and Cassandra blinks with confusion. Ellana just saw Solas yesterday, and now, she calls him by a different epithet than the usual _lethallin_ and _ma’falon._

Ellana continues to hurry towards the gazebo, but as she walks, Cassandra hears the telltale tones of Cole whispering, “She sings, louder and louder and louder, trying to soothe them. _Elgara vallas, da’len, melava somniar, mala taren aravas, ara ma’desen melar._ But the Lady, justice and scales and mother and witch and wilds, all together and more terrifying, the Lady calls, the Lady calls.”

Solas speaks to Ellana, whispering soft elvhen to her, but Ellana only cackles, “Oh, wolf, do you not hear the summons as well? And if not, you should still have good memory of what the Lady does when you do not heed her calls, of what any of our Lords and Ladies do when we do not obey. The gods did not become divine by being kind; they became gods by being _more_ than mortals in every capacity including violence.” Ellana pauses and cocks her head to the side. “Even now, even today, those of this age worship violent gods. A Maker who is absent, a prophet who led a war and was burned, a series of spirit gods that lurk the mountains and the skies in the form of dragons. Divinity is cruel, old wolf.”

Solas recoils from Ellana, but he keeps following her. “You speak with a voice that is not your own and in a mind that is not your own,” Solas evenly replies.

“Ah, but wolf,” Ellana says with a smile that curls too wide around her mouth. “She drank willingly. She submitted to the strength of the Well and promised us her conviction to our Lady. You are lucky that she worships the All-Mother. The god of secrets or the god of monsters would not be as kind.”

“If you could even call one of the Evanuris _kind,”_ Solas snarls. “Mythal may have been the best of them, but even so, you overstep your boundaries in her mind. Moreover, I would rather die than have her submit to the likes of Dirthamen and Ghilan’nain.”

Ellana shrugs and rounds the corner. Mahanon is already there at the edge of the gazebo. Cassandra barely sees him aside from his reflective eyes in the dark. He steps forward with his bow in hand and grasps his sister by the shoulders. “Sister,” he says desperately. “Are you in there?”

“We do not have the _time_ for this,” Ellana hisses back. “The Lady calls. Follow or break.” She points to Morrigan’s eluvian standing by the gazebo. Cassandra doesn’t know why it’s propped up against the gazebo instead of remaining in its room. However, it’s active and alive, sputtering magic all over the dimness just before the dawn. The moonlight that shines down on it looks like it’s amplifying the power of the mirror. Ellana does not hesitate and moves forward, slipping through the glass as if it were nothing but water. Mahanon keeps a hold on her hand and follows after her.

Cassandra exchanges a look with Solas before she too plunges into the cool depths of the eluvian. She stumbles into a world of fog and hazy magic that prickles at the edge of her senses. Solas and Cole step in after her, but Cassandra can only hear Solas’s footsteps.

Ellana sinks to the ground, hands curling into fists and digging into the ground. “Not now,” she grits out. “You are allowed to be my guide, but I will not have you consuming me.”

She writhes, and behind her, the fog starts coalescing into misty tree branches that stretch out from the base of Ellana’s shoulders. They twitch like bird’s wings, and Ellana harshly laughs, “You of mortal life dare to control _us?”_

“No,” Ellana chokes out. “I came to you with open arms, open palms, with nothing but friendship and good intentions. _You_ are the one turning from me, the one clinging to the past and to ideas of bloodshed and dragon scales. You refuse to listen to my words by virtue of the length of my lifespan, not by the validity of my points or my ideas. We work together on equal ground, not in polarized positions. I will not be a slave to your intentions.”

The wings flicker once, twice, but then the mist grows thicker and makes them seem more tangible. “You are marked as a slave though,” Ellana says. “Your wolf of a friend told you that, and yet, you chose to remain marked with the vallaslin.”

Mahanon clutches his hands to his ears, but he manages to remain standing. A distinct improvement over his state at the Well, but it’s not enough. He stumbles on his feet and calls out something elvhen to Ellana. Ellana does not listen though.

“Because it means more to me!” Ellana cries out. She hauls herself back up on her feet and takes one stumbling step forward. “Because I am Dalish and I was made to remember, to learn, to grow beyond what we were born as,” she continues. “Because legacies and traditions change. Because meanings change and adapt over time to suit the era that they are in.” She steadies herself with the glowing green of the Anchor. “I will gladly take the Well of Sorrows on, and I carry you all with me gladly,” she says. “I will sing you the songs of my people and show you what we have grown beyond the fall of Arlathan. But I will not be a slave to your will. I will not be bent, I will not be broken, I will not be enslaved.”

The tree-branch wings on Ellana’s back flare and straighten out. Cassandra, Solas, and Cole all watch with bated breath. Then, the tension in Ellana’s shoulders bleed away, and she softly sings, _“Iras ma ghilas, da’len, ara ma’nedan ashir. Dirthara lothlenan’as bal emma mala dir.”_

The wings slowly start to fade as her melody continues. When they disappear entirely, Ellana stops singing and murmurs, “I only ask enough of you to save my world. I do not want to be a god, I do not want to be divine, I do not want to reshape the world into something new or something greater or bring back the Arlathan of old. I want to live on in this world with the people that I love. Because we are people too, old friends of Arlathan, we are people too.”

Cassandra turns to Solas with a question ready on her lips, but it dies away when she sees a peculiar look widen his eyes. He gapes at Ellana, speechless, and there’s a pensive kind of loneliness and sheer _pain_ that startles Cassandra.

Then, Cassandra hears the slow sound of clapping. She whirls around to see a tall, regal woman with a horned, metal circlet on her brow and white hair shaped into horns. “An admirable sentiment,” she says as she advances on the group. Beside her is Kieran who holds the woman’s hand. His eyes glow a strange blue, and his hands are coated in silver mist.

Before Cassandra can get a closer look at Kieran, he waves his hands, and the magic dissipates. With that, the woman stops in front of Cassandra and the others before she glances over at Ellana. “And it is admirable to see how you bear the Well of Sorrows. Most lose their minds while doing so. You do the People proud, Ellana of Clan Lavellan.”

Ellana slowly turns around. Although her eyes are no longer silver, the silver light still bleeds along the lines of her vallaslin. Her Anchor flickers with the brightest green that Cassandra has ever seen it be. Her eyes widen, and she immediately dips into a deep bow accompanied by symbols that she shapes out rapidly.

The woman clicks her tongue and says, “Rise, Ellana of Clan Lavellan. The People have become so quick to bow. No, raise your head high with _pride._ You have earned it many times over.”

She emphasizes the word “pride,” and Cassandra feels a small rush of pride herself for that acknowledgement. Ellana has indeed proven herself in the forges and fires of battle and conflict many times over. However, beside her, she can feel Solas physically flinch. Cole whispers something in Solas’s ear that’s inaudible to her, but Solas sucks in a deep breath.

Ellana slowly raises her head and pins the woman with the sharpest gaze that Cassandra’s seen all month. It’s the kind of intensity Ellana gave to Celene, to Erimond and Clarel, to Corypheus himself. But this time, there is less malice and more of what is simply _Ellana_ at the very core of it.

She opens her mouth to speak, but she’s interrupted by the screech of a raven’s call. A large, dark bird circles above them before it dives towards them, wings pressed tight to its body. It tumbles down and shifts at the edges of its outline. Cassandra thinks she can see too many unnatural shapes confined within the body of the raven, but it grows larger and settles itself solidly in the form of a woman. Morrigan.

“Kieran!” Morrigan calls out with desperation. Her face twists into a grimace — of fear, of fury, Cassandra cannot define — and she snarls out, “Mother.”

“Daughter,” the woman returns.

Kieran, however, excitedly chirps out, “Mother!”

“You were supposed to be _dead,”_ Morrigan snaps out.

The woman laughs at that. “Oh, Morrigan, I am never truly gone,” she tells Morrigan with a smile playing around her lips. “Mother, daughter, grandson. It rather warms the heart, does it not?”

“Kieran is not your grandson. Let him go,” Morrigan hisses.

The woman clicks her tongue before she says, “As if I was holding the boy hostage. She’s also so ungrateful, you see.”

“Ungrateful? I know how you plan to extend your life, wicked crone!” Morrigan cries out. Morrigan advances on the woman with magic crackling to life in her hands, sparking dangerous and hot. The sensation of Morrigan sears against the edge of Cassandra’s Seeker senses, blooming dark, mottled purple like the purple of a bruise. “You will not have me and you will not have my son!”

“That’s quite enough,” The woman says harshly. “You’ll endanger the boy.”

Ellana stumbles forward, silver bleeding through her irises once more, and keeps Morrigan shackled with mists of magic. “No,” Ellana chokes out. “You will not have me. Do not do this, _please.”_

Mahanon cries out with pain when Ellana tightens her grasp on Morrigan. The purple of Morrigan’s magic burns into Ellana’s hands, but Ellana is unable to twist away. The woman laugh with deligh and watches. “I have done nothing,” the woman tells Ellana. “You drank from the Well of your own volition, Ellana of Clan Lavellan.”

“What are you?” Cassandra snaps. She advances towards the woman with her hand on her pommel. “If you plan to hurt Ellana, then I will have to take action against you. Name yourself, and state your purpose.”

The woman turns her golden gaze upon Cassandra, and Cassandra sees that it’s the same color as Morrigan’s. “I am a fly in the ointment. I am a whisper in the shadows,” the woman tells her. “I am also an old, old woman. More than that you need not know.”

“We called you _Asha’bellanar,_ the woman of many years,” Mahanon suddenly says. He takes a step forward but does not raise his bow just yet. “But others called you the Witch of the Wilds, Flemeth, and other monstrous names. Ancient Fereldan legends. You left your husband for a lover. Your husband then tricked you, killed your lover, and imprisoned you. Then a spirit came to offer you vengeance.”

“And that was Mythal,” Solas says quietly. His voice is pained as he rakes his gaze over Flemeth.

“Why, yes,” Flemeth chuckles. “Clever boy. You also do the People justice, Mahanon of Clan Lavellan. Marked with Dirthamen, aren’t you? How many legends and how many secrets do you hold inside your mind? So quickly told as well. One day, someone will summarize the terrible events of your life so quickly. But yes, I was that woman. That is how my tale began.”

“Flemeth appears in other legends as well. They say you help other heroes,,” Cassandra says distantly. Varric told her this story once when he was telling her a story about the Champion of Kirkwall. One story involving Sundermount is starting to sound familiar with each passing word, and Cassandra is terrified for Ellana.

Flemeth turns to look at Cassandra and laughs. “I nudge history when it’s required,” she says. “Other time, a shove is needed.”

“But you were never dead,” Ellana cuts in. The silver recedes somewhat, but the mist remains on her skin. Her gaze flicks between Morrigan and the woman, and she continues, “While I was still with my clan, we heard that a refugee clan from Ferelden performed a ritual on top of Sundermount for _Asha’bellanar_ during the latter half of the Blight.”

“Correct,” Flemeth says. Cassandra doesn’t know what to call her. Too many times for her identify her now, but each one of them deeply concerns Cassandra. Flemeth smiles, “There was a debt to be repaid, and I had a hawk fly me over to the Free Marches.” She inclines her head towards Morrigan. “I left behind my grimoire for you. I heard that was what you always wanted.”

“What?” Morrigan asks. “Then… Then, did she _lie_ to me?”

Flemeth cackles, “Oh no, no, Warden Neria Surana is an honorable one. I liked her; she had that spark to her. But then again, most heroes do. No, your little Warden friend made sure to spill my blood across the Korcari Wilds because _you_ asked her to.” She holds up Kieran’s hand and chuckles, “Fate has a way of making things work out in the end.”

“You… Mythal…” Solas trails off. He searches Flemeth’s face for something, but Flemeth merely laughs. “You are human instead of elf,” Solas finally says.

“Human is not a word many have used for me in a very long time,” Flemeth chuckles. She allows Kieran to wriggle out of her grasp, but she continues, “Once, I was but a woman, crying out in the lonely darkness for justice. And she came to me, a wisp of an ancient being, and she granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her. She is a part of me, no more separate than your heart from your chest.”

Morrigan sweeps Kieran into a protective embrace, and Cassandra can hear Morrigan’s breathy, choked-out sobs. “I’m sorry, Mother. I heard her calling to me. She said now was the time,” Kieran murmurs.

“I do not understand,” Solas finally says.

“Gods, both terrible and great,” Cole faintly says. “Spirits that rise from the ether to rule and live, _she was the greatest out of them all,_ but greatness does not match the shackles, does not match the blood on the floor.”

“A spirit of Compassion,” Flemeth muses. “You reach out in your attempts to do good, but take care that you do not break yourself doing so, little almost-spirit. You have flesh left in you.” Flemeth nods towards Ellana and says, “You hear the voices of the Well, Ellana of Clan Lavellan. What do they say?”

Ellana glances at Cassandra and Solas. One of her eyes remains a flat silver while the other remains as Ellana’s own eye. “They say she speaks the truth,” she says in a stricken gasp.

“But what was Mythal? A legend given name and called god or something more?” Flemeth murmurs — Mythal, Asha’bellanar, Witch, Cassandra doesn’t _know_ — and Flemeth smiles. “Truth is not the end, but the beginning. A Herald, indeed. Shouting to the heavens, harbinger of a new age. As for me, I have had many names. But you may call me Flemeth.”

“If Mythal is within you, why not reveal yourself?” Ellana asks. Her voice breaks as she speaks, both with her voice and her hands. “Why have you left the elves absent? Why have you abandoned the People?”

“Abandoned the People?” Flemeth echoes. Her eyes gleam a brighter gold as she hisses out, “And yet, Mythal was the one to be abandoned. Because things happened that were never meant to happen. She was betrayed as I was betrayed.” Flemeth’s voice grows louder as she cries out, “As the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!”

“So, is vengeance the only thing that Mythal has been reduced to?” Solas asks. He raises his left hand up before he changes his mind and drops his hand back to his side. His hand clenches into a white-knuckled fist as he asks, “Has such a mighty god fallen this far?”

“There are nuances to justices, layers upon layers upon layers on every spirit, every soul, every concept,” Flemeth says. “You out of all people should know this, _Pride._ We, I, _she_ survived this for the end, for a reckoning that will shake the very heavens.”

“And yet, the heavens hold so little,” Solas replies. His voice is weary, and when Cassandra looks at him, there’s something ragged and empty in the lines of his expression. “You say that you search for your reckoning, but there is none to be had.”

Flemeth bares her teeth into a facsimile of a smile as she says, “That is what you think, wolf. Do not let your pride blind you. There are machinations in the world that have been churning away, both at my discretion and yours and to anyone else who dares to dabble in the threads of destiny and fate.”

“And yet,” Ellana murmurs. “You prioritize your own reckoning and your own form of justice over that of the People. We worship you. We would do anything for you, anything for the Evanuris, for our Creators. But you would abandon us in a world where we burn over and over and over again. We die of hunger, of abuse, of violence and hatred that has simmered for ages. Ages that _you_ have spent in a woman’s body, thirsting for revenge like some sort of rabid wolf.” Her voice shakes with a certain kind of force. Rage, anger, confusion, and duty bound harder than ironbark. Cassandra knows this kind of force; she’s seen it bold and bright in her Ellana too many times.

“Divinity is hungry, child,” Flemeth chides.

“You are no god,” Mahanon now snaps. “What god does this to their people?”

“Then you do not know the gods,” Flemeth evenly says. “The gods have never been kind. Not during the times of Arlathan, not during the times of Andraste, not during the times of the Avvar spirits.” She glances over at Solas, and her lips quirk into something strange. “Divinity is hungry, child of secrets, and it consumes everything that it can in an effort to sustain itself.”

Ellana looks down at her hands before she looks up to Flemeth. “Then, what is the point of divinity?” she asks in a hollow voice.

“That is what you determine yourself,” Flemeth says. This time, her voice is gentler. “For what it is worth, Ellana of Clan Lavellan, the People have survived and flourished without me, without _us.”_

“I know,” Ellana says. Mahanon looks up as well, and Ellana speaks in unison with her twin when she says, “We are Dalish. We are built to survive.”

“And perhaps you will survive us all, Ellana and Mahanon of Clan Lavellan,” Flemeth says with a nod. She pauses and reconsiders her woods. “You two are already survivors. You should know this already.”

“No,” Ellana chokes out. “We cannot, _I cannot.”_

Mahanon looks between Flemeth and Ellana with a confused look, but Flemeth simply says, “You are.”

Ellana’s knees slacken, and Cassandra rushes over to support her. Ellana leans against Cassandra’s shoulder and reaches out to clutch Mahanon’s hand with her Anchored hand. But Ellana’s already lost Flemeth’s attention. The Witch of the Wilds straightens her shoulders as she says, “Now, to have what I have come for.”

“No. I will not allow it,” Morrigan breathes out. “He is not your pawn, Mother. I will not let you use him!

“He carries a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness. You know this,” Flemeth says in a low and terrible voice. The air itself seems to grow colder as she speaks. “Have you not used him? Was that not your purpose, the reason you agreed to his creation?”

“That was then. Now, he… He is my son,” Morrigan says as she draws herself up to her full height.

Cassandra narrows her eyes and says, “The way you talk about Kieran is… Strange.”

“I am not the only one carrying the soul of a being long thought lost,” Flemeth chuckles. The air is now cold for Cassandra’s breath to coalesce into small clouds, but she does not think that the temperature alone is the reason for the shiver that runs down her spine.

“He is more than that, Mother,” Morrigan hisses as she holds Kieran even closer. She moves herself so that she is between her son and her mother, acting as a human shield.

“As am I, yet do you hear me complain?” Flemeth says archly. “Our destinies are not so easily avoided, dear girl. You hid him from me. Clever girl, but it was not meant to last for long.” A peculiar look makes Flemeth’s features look uncannily monstrous as she says, “Always grasping beyond your reach despite all that I taught you. The Well of Sorrows is not blind, dear daughter.”

“Kieran, I…” Morrigan trails off. She cups her son’s face in her hands, but Kieran quietly places his hands over hers.

Flemeth looks at the two of them, and her mouth works. No voice comes out yet. Then, the cold subsides, and Flemeth says, “Hear my proposal, dear girl. Let me take the lad, and you are free of me forever. I will never interfere with or harm you again.” She pauses and curls her hand into a fist. Ellana cries out with a sharp scream, and her vallaslin turns silver once more. Cassandra clutches Ellana’s shoulder, but the misty wings that form behind Ellana’s back burn Cassandra’s hands. Flemeth beckons to Ellana, and Ellana stumbles towards her. The tree-branch wings on Ellana’s back keep her from crumpling onto the ground. Flemeth arches an eyebrow and finishes, “Or keep the lad with you and you will never be safe from me. I will have my due.”

“Do whatever you wish,” Morrigan says. Her gold eyes burn into her mother’s own gaze, and both appear exactly the same in their hue and intensity. “Take over my body now if you must, but Kieran will be free of your clutches,” Morrigan growls. “I am many things, but I will not be the mother you were to me.”

Cole cocks his head when he hears Morrigan’s words, and his hat sways with the movement. “Bruises, dark and purple, blooming across pale skin,” he says. “Fear, rage, anger, all pointed in the wrong direction, in different directions, the smell of blood and blooming spindleweed, _you mustn’t make mistakes, dear girl, you’re not allowed to,_ fear, fear, anger. Dragon’s scale, dragon’s tooth, _no, you must listen to me and only me.”_

Flemeth stops, and the misty wings abruptly dissipate from Ellana’s back. Without the support, Ellana falls to the ground in a heap. Cassandra moves towards Ellana, but her brother is quicker. In a flash, Mahanon is there, dragging his sister away from the Witch of the Wilds.

Kieran, on the other hand, sighs. The sound echoes in the liminal space where they stand, and he presses a kiss to his mother’s forehead. “No more dreams?” he asks.

“No more dreams,” Flemeth confirms.

Kieran smiles at that and makes his way around his mother. When Morrigan opens her mouth to protest, Kieran shakes his head and places a finger on his lips. He trots over to Flemeth, and Flemeth peers at his face. “Thank you, dear boy,” she exhales. She lifts one hand and makes a beckoning motion with her fingers.

A deep blue vortex forms over Kieran’s chest, and something glowing transfers from Kieran to Flemeth. Kieran visibly relaxes and laughs. This laugh makes him seem more human than he’s ever sounded to Cassandra, and he dashes back over to his mother’s side. Morrigan envelopes him into a desperate hug, and she smoothes her hands over his skin, making sure that he’s intact.

Flemeth watches Morrigan with almost a hint of sadness lingering in her golden eyes. “A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in danger from me,” she quietly says. “Listen to the voices. They will teach you. As I never did.”

With that, Flemeth turns to leave. Ellana stretches out her Anchored hand towards Flemeth and croaks out, “All-Mother.” Flemeth pauses only for a moment, and that’s enough time for Ellana to haul herself back up to her feet. She steadies herself with one hand on her brother’s shoulder as she calls out, “All-Mother, born of sea, deliverer of justice, and protector of sun and earth alike. I come to you with clear mind and open heart. I ask for your blessing, and I mark my face with your vallaslin. I drank from the Vir Abelasan in your name, and I ask for your help as we face Corypheus.” Ellana grits her teeth as the Anchor suddenly flares, glass-bright and glass-sharp, but she continues, “We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. Guide us to safety and peace in this war.”

Flemeth glances back at Ellana and her lips curve slightly. “Ellana of Clan Lavellan,” she says. “You already know what to do. Listen to the voices, and they will guide you to one of my guardians. Ghilan’nain had her creations, Falon’Din had his owls, and Dirthamen had his ravens. Do you know what I had, child of the Free Marches? They will help you in your war, but perhaps, you should take a closer look to your own home before you venture out in pursuit of your war. Farewell.”

She steps forward and dissipates into a thousand droplets of mist that then fracture over each other into brilliant specks of light. Cassandra has to look away before she gets blinded by them, and she stumbles backwards. As she moves back, she can feel the cool touch of the eluvian again, and Cassandra stumbles back out in Skyhold’s courtyard. The gazebo and the eluvian is still there, and the others start to move out of the eluvian as well.

Once Morrigan is out with her son, she falls to her knees and gazes with heartbroken eyes at her son. “Are you alright, Kieran? You are not hurt?” she asks tenderly.

Kieran shrugs. “I feel lonely,” he murmurs.

“She wanted the Old God soul all along,” Morrigan grinds out. She stands back up and regards Ellana as she comes out of the eluvian as the very last person. “Is it worth reminding myself that perhaps I do not know everything after all? My mother has the soul of an elven goddess — or whatever Mythal truly was — and her plans are unknown to me,” she says. “I knew she kept the truth from me. I even suspected she was not truly human. But this? I always thought the so-called elven gods were little more than glorified rulers, but now, I have doubt. And doubt is an uncomfortable thing, Inquisitor.”

“And now, my sister is tied to your mother for an eternity,” Mahanon snaps. “Blinded and battered by the voices of a thousand centuries. That is what my sister has trapped inside her mind. Moreover, you mentioned that your son had the soul of an Old God? What is with your family and meddling in the affairs of the divine?”

“Yes, my son had the soul of an Old God,” Morrigan retorts. “Taken from the Archdemon at the final battle of the Fifth Blight. He has never known anything else.” She gazes at her son again who twiddles his thumb and plays with the edge of his shirt. “I am uncertain what effect this will have on him,” she whispers.

“But why?” Solas finally asks. His face looks drawn in the light of the moon, and his eyes reflect the light back flatly.

Morrigan turns on Solas and sighs, “I told you at the temple. The magic of old must be preserved, no matter how feared. Kieran had a destiny, and now, it is in Flemeth’s hands. I suppose we shall see what she does with it.”

Ellana leans heavily against the frame of the gazebo and runs her hand down the frame of the eluvian. With her touch, the glass quiets and the eluvian stops sputtering magic out. She looks up at Morrigan and says, “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”

“Did I?” Morrigan muses. “She was testing me, and I cannot tell whether I passed.” She goes over to her son and lifts him up in her arms. She swivels her gaze to Cassandra and the others before she turns to face Ellana again. “Good evening, Inquisitor. Thank you for your help. I’m not sure if my mother would have given Kieran back willingly without you there.”

Ellana dips her head at Morrigan. “I am only glad that you are not bound to your mother like I am,” she says. Morrigan flinches, but Ellana shakes her head. “Stay safe, Morrigan.”

Morrigan nods before she takes her leave. Cole turns to Ellana and says sadly, “There was burning, knives that rose and fell with no blood from their targets to stain their sides. Now, there’s only ashes left. The Lady says that the city is quiet.”

“Ellana,” Mahanon cuts in. His face is somber when he asks, “What was she talking about? What is Cole talking about?”

Ellana’s face drains of any color that it regained, and Ellana shudders as she says, “We were too late. Our spies must have failed.”

Now, Cassandra moves forward to get a better look at her lover’s face. “What are you talking about, Ellana?” she asks softly.

Ellana lifts her head, but her gaze is beyond Cassandra. Cassandra turns to see Leliana, standing at the edge, with her chest heaving with panting breaths. She must’ve run here herself. Cassandra’s brow furrows with confusion. Leliana normally has her ravens or her scouts deliver her messages and missives. She rarely comes to Ellana directly nor this late at night unless it is of acute importance.

Ellana drifts forward, looking almost ghostly with the remnants of silver tracing her vallaslin and shooting through her irises. Mahanon follows her with a kind of nervous trepidation making his face harsh and craggy. Leliana wordlessly passes her a piece of torn and wrinkled parchment, stained with soot and something else that Cassandra can’t identify.

Ellana holds in her hands, and her brother reads it over her shoulder. Both of them have learned how to read fluently by now, but it seems like whatever they’re reading does not bode well. Mahanon’s voice cries in a short, keen sound, and he stumbles back from his sister. The note drifts out of Ellana’s slackened grasp, but she does not look up.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana begins. She tries to catch Ellana’s gaze again, but now, Cassandra can hear Leliana suck in a sharp gasp. Ellana glances back, and Cassandra can see the silver overtake her irises entirely. She opens her mouth to speak something in elvhen, and Mahanon drags himself back to Ellana’s side.

Cassandra can’t tell what she’s saying, but Solas surges forward to snap something back. Ellana glares at Solas, and her gaze is flinty and furious as she snarls, “Step aside, old wolf. We must have our due.”

Ellana reaches out for Mahanon’s hand, and he returns her grip with equal force. Ellana tugs her brother forward, and together, they dash to the eluvian with no warning. A single touch is enough to activate the glass again, and they slip through like shadows in the endless night. Cassandra cries out for Ellana and tries to follow after her, but she’s too late. She runs into cold, hard glass instead.

Cassandra whirls around on her heel, ready to bark at Leliana, but Solas is standing in front of Leliana. In his hand is the scrap of paper that Ellana and Mahanon were reading. Cole sways by his side, whispering something in a sing-song tune. Cassandra thinks that it was the song that Ellana was singing before, but Cole is so quiet that Cassandra can’t tell.

Solas looks up at Cassandra and wordlessly passes the paper to Cassandra. She snatches it in a hurry. The paper crackles under her touch, and now, Cassandra can see the dried spatters across the paper. There is nothing that the spatters can be other than blood. Ink nor dye bears the same kind of color, and the paper still smells like soot and ash.

Cassandra cannot muster out a single word when she reads it the paper. She reads it again, wondering if her eyes have tricked her. But the words do not change. Cassandra whips around to look at the eluvian and whispers painfully, “Oh, my love, where have you gone?”

Her hand falls limp by her side, and the words are now open to the night air. And they are words that leave only agony in their wake.  


 

_Da'len,_

_I know not whether this will reach you._   
_The Duke of Wycome is dead, and the soldiers of Wycome blame us._   
_All the elves in the city have been killed, blamed for some plague that only strikes down humans._   
_Now they hunt us as well._

_Most of the clan is already dead._

_Live well, da'len. You carry Clan Lavellan with you. They are coming for us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still think that the well of sorrows could have been creepier in-game, so i tried to portray the vir abelasan as something hungrier that firmly and obviously takes up space in ellana's head. mahanon experiences some of the side-effects of ellana's pain because he's her twin + i think it's cool to have that pain resonate across the magical connection that they have between them. also, i just,,, rly like having references to solas being fen'harel sprinkled everywhere. hope you enjoyed reading the new chapter!


	14. ghosts that haunt the waves

The Lavellans do not return.

The days turn into a week, and still, Cassandra hears nothing about them. Every day, she is the first to rise before the dawn, and she waits impatiently at Skyhold’s gates for the daily news and messages. She frequents Leliana’s rookery and Josephine’s office for news, and every time, they look at her sadly and tell her no.

Sorrow, anger, worry, frustration. All these and more filter through Cassandra’s mind over and over again. Then, Leliana brings her news with a grim expression etched into the lines of her face. Her scouts in the Free Marches have reported that there’s been sightings of a dragon circling around the city of Wycome. It landed in the charred wreckage of the alienage and roared. The report ends there, but the ends of the paper are burned off, mid-word.

It’s not a good report, but the thing that makes Cassandra’s head spin is that one guard from Wycome reports that there is a figure on the back of the dragon. The guard’s panicky report describes a demon inhabiting the body of a dead Dalish elf’s body from the alienage. The elf had glowing eyes and branches threaded over with light over the elf’s skin.

Leliana lays a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder and quietly says, “There’s no one else in Thedas that elf could be except Lavellan.”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra tries to say. “Ellana wouldn’t let a demon take her over. She’s not an abomination, and she’s never had a dragon aside from that one dragon she and Iron Bull tried to adopt.” 

Leliana purses her lips and says, “Lavellan may not be an abomination, but she chose to take on the Well of Sorrows. We don’t know how much of Lavellan is left and how much of her is the Well of Sorrows now. You saw her when she left Skyhold through the eluvian. There aren’t any reports of casualties left, but there is no predicting her fury. She’s powerful enough on her own. With a dragon, she could raze the entire city down as revenge.”

“Then, what about Mahanon?” Cassandra retorts. “Mahanon left with her. If those rumors are true, then they should have something about Mahanon with them. No, that cannot be Ellana.” 

Leliana looks at her sadly, and Cassandra feels even more desperate. She knows better than to assume, but then again, Leliana’s instincts have rarely failed them. Cassandra can’t bear to look at Leliana any longer and turns on her heel to go to her quarters. 

She walks quickly with each step, but once she gets up the first step to Ellana’s rooms, she starts sprinting up the stairs. She pays no heed to anything else other than the fluttering fear that quickens her heartbeat. Cassandra arrives at the door, panting not from exertion but from the fear that invades her lungs and speeds her breath just like her heart. 

She strides over to Ellana’s desk to stare down at the map Ellana keeps unfolded on her desk at all times. There are notes scribbled in the margins with grey pencil and scraps of notes and reports tacked on with small pins. Cassandra’s eyes comb through the section of the map that represents the Free Marches, and right next to Wycome, she finds a large circle right over the city. The area is veritably covered with notes, and although most are in Ellana’s elvhen script, some of the additional notes are written in Common and in different handwriting.

One note bears Leliana’s handwriting and says, “My agents found the clan safely nearby Wycome. They were eager to hear news of you and gave us blood lotus in return for our message. My agent tried to refuse, but the Keeper insisted that we should have it.”

Another note in a handwriting that Cassandra doesn’t recognize reads, “Bandits near valley where Clan Lavellan located, too many weapons to be regular bandits, requires attention of Sister Nightingale.” The note is stamped with the Inquisition insignia, but the torn edges makes Cassandra suspect that it was ripped off from a greater compilation of reports from the Hinterlands.

Cassandra slumps against the desk with her forehead pressed against the wood. She can feel the map’s depiction of the Frostback Mountains against her skin, and she wonders why she didn’t see the signs sooner. Ellana never told her a single thing about her clan, and Cassandra assumed that her clan was safe and sound somewhere in the Free Marches. Now, Cassandra wonders how much about Ellana there is that she doesn’t know. It stings. Cassandra doesn’t know why Ellana wouldn’t tell her. It stings, and it hurts, and Cassandra stumbles away from the desk to lie down on the bed.

Again, she’s left wondering if the Ellana she knows is the true Ellana. She doesn’t understand why Ellana would keep things hidden away from her. Is she not worthy of trust? Has she done something to make Ellana wary and watchful? Or is this a change brought on by the Anchor or the Well of Sorrows? There are too many questions swirling in Cassandra’s head, and it makes the back of her eyes sting with unshed tears. She curls in closer to herself and tries to reassure herself, but every thought she manages to summon up feels half-hearted.

The next day, Cassandra wakes up to the sounds of alarms ringing all over Skyhold. Her eyes snap open, and adrenaline makes her bolt out of bed. She ties on the rest of her armor in a hurry, and she grabs her sword before she starts sprinting down the stairs towards the sound. “Dragon!” she hears one maid scream as she runs across the courtyard. Cassandra shoulders through everyone else and makes it to the main gate. 

She can’t hear the sounds of bowstrings twanging nor the sounds of swords and shields colliding against scales, so she has no idea what’s going on. “Cullen!” Cassandra yells when she glimpses the Commander’s furred mantle. “What’s going on?!”

Cullen glances back at the crowd and finds Cassandra. “The Lavellans are back,” he says grimly. 

Cassandra pushes her way to the very front, and like Cullen said, she sees the Lavellans right by the gate. Behind them looms a large dragon who nudges Ellana’s side with its snout. She absently scratches its snout, and the dragon lets out a whuffing noise. Both the Lavellans are still in their armor, and they’re covered with ashes and old blood. Rust-red stains Ellana’s cheek, coating over the branches inscribed on her skin. Ellana lifts her head, and her gaze lands on Cassandra. She tries to lift her lips up into a smile, but it’s half-hearted.

The rest is a flurry of motion and noise. Cullen and Josephine tries to settle the crowd while Leliana and the Iron Bull try to get the Lavellans back to the war room. The dragon takes particular offense when they approach Ellana and starts roaring which terrifies some people into drawing their weapons. In the end though, the crowd disperses, the dragon falls asleep outside the main gate (and blocks the entrance to Skyhold), and the Lavellans make their way to the war room. Cassandra follows after them with a watchful eye.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen says once the great doors to the room are shut. Ellana arches a brow nonchalantly, and that only angers Cullen more. “You  _ left _ without a single word, without a single guard, without a single member of your inner circle to protect you.”

“I had my brother,” Ellana says stonily.

“Your brother is not enough to protect you from the Venatori, Red Templars, Corypheus, and whatever else wants to kill you!” Cullen bursts out. In all honesty, Cassandra holds the same sentiment.

Mahanon cocks his head and says, “We also had a dragon.”

“And the dragon!” Cullen snaps. “Where, in the name of Andraste and all that is blessed, did you find a  _ dragon?” _

Josephine clears her throat before Ellana can speak, and Cassandra looks over at her. If Cullen was angry, then Josephine has a veritable storm trapped in the lines of her face. “Inquisitor, we were all very worried for you,” she says quietly, but her tone is stronger than silverite and brooks no argument. Now, Ellana looks marginally more apologetic than she did with Cullen. Josephine sets her tablet down on the war table, and the candle’s flame flickers. “We had no idea where you were,” she says. “We sent scouts upon scouts, scoured our network of connections and informants, and even then, we had no word as to where you were and if you were alive or not.  _ Then, _ Leliana received a report that you were sighted in Wycome.”

“And Wycome burned,” Leliana adds. She lays her hands flat on the table, bracing them above the Boeric Ocean on the map. “The report mentioned a demon using the body of a dead Dalish elf with eyes and tattoos that glowed silver. Would you like to explain yourself, Inquisitor?”

“Justice,” Ellana replies. 

“That is not justice,” Cassandra now hisses. “That’s vengeance. You razed a city down with a dragon. That is a  _ war crime.” _ The anger, trapped inside her chest for days, makes her words sharp and thorned. “You told me once that you wanted the Inquisition’s forces to spend their times rebuilding the villages and towns that Corypheus destroyed. Are you sinking to his level?”

Fury flashes in Ellana’s as well as hurt and betrayal.  _ “Never _ compare me to Corypheus. He rages because his god is silent,” Ellana warns in a too-dangerous tone. “I raged because my clan was killed for fabricated reasons that were never touched by a single clan-mate. The innocents fled the city; they had ample time to pack their belongings and leave. I asked Mythal to deliver justice, and she sent one of her guardians. It brought death down on the nobles and the Venatori who caused the mess, not the innocents.”

“The Well,” Cassandra says slowly. The realization slowly starts to pool in Cassandra’s mind, like slow water coming back after low tide, and she looks up at Ellana. She searches for a familiar sight in Ellana’s eyes, but to her choking, withering fear, she sees that there’s a tell-tale silver starting to ring around the now-green irises of Ellana’s eyes. “You used the Well of Sorrows to destroy an entire city.”

“I used the resources at my disposal to apply justice,” Ellana says stonily. 

“Justice? What is justice worth if you have to kill both a part of yourself and destroy an entire city for it? You live in the Free Marches, you know what went on in Kirkwall, and yet, you went ahead and repeated the same thing by completely devastating a city. For Maker’s sake, can’t you just keep yourself safe? Can’t you think beyond yourself?” Cassandra explodes. “You kill a part of yourself, over and over again, whenever you use the Well of Sorrows. Do you not know what you sound like when t-that  _ thing _ controls you?” She clenches her hands into fists. “Both Cole and Mahanon scream when they try to hear your mind, and you speak with another person’s voice. Why? Why are you unable to choose something that keeps yourself safe? Why did you bind yourself to this  _ thing _ that is probably more demon than divine?! For Maker’s sake, we  _ saw _ the thing that called itself Mythal and Flemeth. Your gods are likely nothing more than angry spirits and demonic things in the Fade!”

When her last sentence leaves her, Cassandra knows that she’s crossed the line. “You know very well why I had to,” Ellana says. Her voice slows, and with cold, silent fury, she speaks again. “You know  _ too well _ that I could not let another fragment of my people leave us and remain in the hands of a human woman. It is a relic of my people, not some sort of demon. We have both seen them before, and the Vir Abelasan is not one of them. Besides, Maker this and Andraste that is something that hangs off your lips every day from both you and almost everyone else in this Creator-damned Inquisition. You claim to have your absent god supercede us, but at least I have proof that my gods were and  _ are _ real!” 

“Religion does not excuse you for your crime,” Cassandra says furiously. She takes a step away from Ellana and says, “You’re not listening to me. You wouldn’t even tell me about your clan nor the troubles you were facing. You spend all your time trying to bear your problems on your own, and you cannot even tolerate a single loss.”

Silence settles over the war room like a deathly pallor, and the only sound that truly resonates in the room is the crackling sound of Josephine’s candle. The wrath on Ellana’s face is dark and stormy, and Mahanon’s countenance is virtually a mirror of the same face.

“Does that justify using the Well of Sorrows to destroy a city?” Cullen finally asks. He looks weary, and he leans against the war table for support.

Cullen sputters, but Ellana reins back her anger and now says, slowly and steadily, “They burned my clan, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford. The nobles of Wycome burned both the alienage and my clan until they were nothing but ashes and cinders. It was an unforgivable act, so I used the Well of Sorrows and summoned one of Mythal’s guardians.”

“And was it worth it?” Leliana then asks. 

“Of course,” Ellana says, and she breaks Cassandra’s heart with that single phrase. 

“This is not the Ellana I know,” Cassandra says. Her voice rises with each word until she feels herself shaking with the worry that has been trapped inside of her.

“The Ellana you know?” Ellana repeats. Her eyes grow dark and green, and she snaps back, “And what do you know of me, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast?! You know nothing aside from what I present to you, of what I willingly give to you, of what I choose to show and reveal. You know  _ nothing _ of who I truly am. The only ones who truly knew are  _ dead _ save for my brother.” 

Ellana turns sharply away from Cassandra and ignores her. Mahanon nudges her, but she does not turn. “It was not an entire city,” Mahanon then says. “We hunted down the ones who orchestrated the entire thing. The city was already burning, and the residents were killing each other for water. We did not kill any innocents if that is what you are angry for.”

Josephine presses her hands to her temples and says, “But you still left without a single word, endangered our Inquisitor’s wellbeing with the use of the Well, summoned a dragon, and left a city burning in your wake. We spent the last week and more, worried out of our  _ minds. _ Beyond that, we now have to deal with this issue of Wycome with the rest of the Free Marches as well as other allies of ours who may question the report Leliana discovered.”

“I will not apologize for the justice that we delivered for my clan,” Ellana says with fury suffusing every inch of her voice. “If not us, then who else will?”

Cullen drags his hand down his face and snaps, “We could have sent someone to handle—”

“No!” Ellana explodes. “I sent  _ multiple _ people to handle the issue in Wycome. Months of negotiations and subterfuge and Leliana’s agents and my own efforts did  _ nothing. _ Since when has a Dalish clan ever been afforded the same rights and treatment as other humans? The shemlen have not changed over the ages, and there is no reason why they would change now.” Her voice cracks as she continues, “Even I as the  _ Inquisitor, _ as your precious  _ Herald, _ could not grant my own  _ family _ something like protection and freedom. Even now, I cannot bury my clan and give them the same funeral rites that we normally would. I cannot lay their bodies to rest with oak staffs in the ground because there is nothing to bury. They cannot walk with Falon’Din to the places beyond.”

She drags in a heavy breath and opens her mouth to speak again, but no words come out. Mahanon lays a hand on Ellana’s shoulder and says softly, “Your people may honor your dead with funeral pyres, but we lay our people down to rest in the ground so that their bodies can return to the earth that gave us life and then give life back. Ashes means the end. Fire means destruction. There is nothing left.”

“Nothing for my clan,” Ellana manages to say. She straightens up and curls her hands into tight fists. She gestures sharply to the doors and the world beyond, and she sucks in a deep breath before she snarls, “They killed my clan. They slaughtered my family, my friends, my clan-mates who I have known and grown up with for seasons upon seasons as well as the new ones. Children with congealed blood pouring out of their bellies, a clan-mate still 7 months pregnant and her babe torn out and burned in the center of the square. New members to the clan from other places, new members I did not have the opportunity to know and love and cherish like the rest of my clan. All of them, dead for a false rumor spread by the nobility and the Venatori.” Her Anchor catches on fire, and green light bathes Ellana’s face as she says lowly, “Justice had to be served. I gave back every single death with equal measure. Now, ask me again if I should have left that city alone, whole and hale.”

Cassandra looks at Ellana and feels her heart ache. The pain stings her eyes and tightens her throat. She turns on her heel to leave the war room, but just before she opens the door, she says bitterly, “I thought I knew you. Evidently, I did not.” She shuts the door behind her when she leaves, and Ellana does not chase after her. As she walks down the hall, her tears finally spill down her cheeks and Cassandra cries silently. She tries to wipe them away, but they keep coming. She manages to get to Josephine’s desk but there, she crumbles and lets the tears fall. She does not let a  single sound fall out of her mouth though. When they cease for a brief respite, she uses the opportunity to run towards her former room. 

Out of habit, Cassandra still keeps that room. Her desk remains there, and although most of the furnishings are bare, Cassandra still has things like spare gauntlets, satchels from previous journeys, and her extra copies of  _ Swords and Shields _ in her room. Even though she moved in with Ellana, this room felt like a special space to her. Now, when she walks in the slightly dusty room, she sees memories. She can see the pastries and Ellana’s tea in her mind’s eye when she glances at the nightstand, and she can visualize Ellana’s bare body half-covered by the sheets on her bed. Cassandra sits down on the bed heavily and exhales out a shaky breath.

She hasn’t fought with Ellana like this before. They had brief and minor arguments over silly things like jam and statuettes of Andraste and baby druffalo. Never something like this. Never over a situation to this scale. Cassandra won’t lie; she’s horrified at what Ellana has done. It seems so antithetical to who Ellana is and it stands completely against what Ellana has championed in the past. She knows Ellana holds a bitterness towards nobility and towards human laws that keep her people firmly in poverty and misery. She just never knew that Ellana was willing to use the Well for such destruction. Again, the same questions circle around in her head. How much of Ellana is truly Ellana and how much is the Well? How much of Ellana showing of her true self and if she was, why would she hide parts of herself like that?

Cassandra leans back and stares at the ceiling. There’s a small space where Ellana and Sera painted constellations on the ceiling. This was during a phase where Ellana decided to solve every constellation in every astrarium and practiced drawing constellations wherever she went. Sera decided to help in her own way and took Ellana around to paint constellations everywhere she went. There’s a section of the ceiling where Sera painted a constellation in the shape of a penis, but there are also the constellations that Ellana painted specifically for Cassandra. Solium, the Sun. Equinor, the Stallion. Tenebrium, the Owl. Silentir with a man carrying a horn and wand. Cassandra remembers Ellana telling her the Dalish equivalent of the constellations. Elgar’nan’s sun, Ghilan’nain’s halla instead of the stallion, Falon’Din’s owl and Mythal’s scales of justice.

Justice. Cassandra rolls that word over in her mind and hates the double-edged nature of it.

Cassandra rolls over on her bed. She does not want to see the stars anymore. Even though it’s still morning — barely noon, in fact — she somehow manages to fall into dreamless sleep. She wakes up with a distinct grogginess in her head and misted eyes. The moons are in the sky amongst the stars — the real ones, not the painted ones — and Cassandra sighs. She’s missed the entire day.

She shuffles out of bed and rinses her mouth with some water to get rid of the dry taste in her mouth. Cassandra raises her head to look at her reflection in the mirror right above her wash basin. Her face looks haggard in the moonlight, and her braid is half undone. Her hands move towards her hair, and with slow, aching motions, she undoes the braid completely. Her hair falls around her face, and in that moment, she looks both young, cheekbones framed with hair in a style she hasn’t worn it in since Anthony died, and ancient, worn by the burdens she’s carried over the years. Cassandra shakes her head and pulls her hair back into a thin braid, pinning into its former crown atop her head once more.

An itch for movement, whether that be training or a simple walk, runs through Cassandra’s bones, so she heads outside instead of going back to sleep. She meanders through Skyhold, heedless of where her feet take her. She sees a few people still awake, finishing the last of their work by candlelight, but aside from that, nearly the entirety of Skyhold is ensconced in their dreams for the night. Cassandra ascends the stone steps up to the parapets and exhales when she sees the stars. 

They spell out the same constellations painted above her bed, but they also lightly illuminate a figure leaning against the stones of the parapets. Ellana lifts her head to see Cassandra, and she gestures to her side for Cassandra to come closer. Cassandra stares at her, and the dry taste in her mouth returns at the back of her tongue. She doesn’t know what to do, so she moves forward with awkward steps. 

Ellana points up and says, “Mythal is shining bright in the sky tonight.” 

Silentir gleams above in the sky, and like its name, it is silent in the night. Both a man with a wand and horn and Mythal's scales of justice, Silentir only hovers in the sky and offers no answer nor reply for Cassandra. So, instead of looking upward, Cassandra stonily replies,  “It seems as though she shines bright on your face as well."

Ellana blinks, and the same hurt flickers through her green-brown irises. She sighs, and her breath turns pale in the chill of the night air. “That, she does,” she admits. “The Well is… It is different. It is hard to explain, but the best way I can put it like having a choir at the back of your mind that sings at inopportune times. You can also ask it to sing when you want it to, and when it does, it sings at such a volume.”

“How much of you is the Well? How much of you is left, Ellana?” Cassandra finally says. 

Ellana bites her lip and lifts up her marked hand. The Anchor doesn’t sputter or spark, but it does glow a faint green in the darkness of the night. “I do not  _ feel _ any different,” Ellana tells her. “Mahanon tells me that I have changed, but so has he. Our change is a product of our environment and our circumstances. Any change I displayed after the Well was when the Well took over. Aside from that, I cannot say. What do you think?”

Cassandra leans against the parapets for support and clings onto the stone with white knuckles. “I think,” she says quietly. “I think that you crossed a line in Wycome.” Ellana’s expression stiffens, but Cassandra continues, “I think that you should have told me about what your clan was going through. I understand that it was a private matter, but Ellana, my love, the more you try to shoulder everything by yourself and try to save everyone without a single loss, the more you will lose parts of yourself to do it.”

“I did not even succeed,” Ellana says in a ragged voice. “I did not even succeed in saving my clan. What would saying anything about it make a single difference? I asked Leliana. Leliana succeeded the first time. I asked Leliana again. She failed the second time.”

“Did you ask anyone else about the matter?” Cassandra asks.

Ellana casts her gaze away and does not respond.

“Ellana, I found out for the first time when you dropped that piece of parchment and ran through the eluvian,” Cassandra says. “Why do you have three advisors? They are there to advise you and offer up different solutions to a single problem. Why do you have an inner circle? They are there to support you in your endeavours. Why do you hide things from us? Why do you hide things from  _ me, _ Ellana?”

A long, slow breath rattles out of Ellana’s lungs and out of her mouth as a shaky sigh. “Fear,  _ vhenan,” _ Ellana quietly admits. “I was scared. I am still scared. I am scared that giving more of myself to other people aside from my clan will result in hurt. There was a small part of me during that entire ordeal that said that telling others would endanger my clan even more.” She shakes her head, and in a bitter, breaking voice, she says, “In retrospect, I should have gone to Cullen. I should have gone to Cullen and told him to send his troops — all those recruits he spends day and night training — to Wycome and break up the trouble there. Leliana’s agents stood no chance against bigotry and the deep-pocketed riches of the nobles and Venatori. But I was scared. He may not be a templar any longer, but I did not trust him and I was scared. I lost my parents to templars. I did not want to place the safety of my clan in the hands of an ex-templar.” 

Cassandra lets go of the stone and reaches out for Ellana’s hands instead. They are uncharacteristically cold, and Cassandra tries to rub some more warmth into them. “I know it hurts,” she whispers. “I know loss and grief hurt like nothing else. But please, Ellana, promise that you will share your troubles with more people, that you will not try to shoulder the burden by yourself, that you will not pay yourself to the Well to solve the things that you face.”

“I—” Ellana tries to reply. She ends up tugging Cassandra into an embrace and burying her face in the crook of Cassandra’s neck. She has to stand on her toes to get there, so Cassandra bends towards her. “I will try,” Ellana says. Her voice is muffled, but she says, “I was so blinded by fury. I could not see anything else but the burned bodies of my people. I found the half-burned body of my grandmother, but it crumbled when we tried to move her somewhere else. Fire made by blood magic just does not burn the way normal fire does.”

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra says as she hugs Ellana tighter. “I’m so sorry for what happened.”

They stand there in quiet silence, arms around each other. Cassandra can feel Ellana’s shoulders shake as she cries. Ellana is the first to pull away though. “We have not fought before, have we?” she weakly says. “Not like this.”

“No, we haven’t,” Cassandra sighs. “I don’t like it at all.”

“I do not either,” Ellana says. Her face is blotchy with her tears, and she roughly rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. Cassandra catches her hand and carefully wipes Ellana’s tears away with more care.

Ellana sniffles and says, “You are right,  _ vhenan. _ I should have contacted you or said something about the matter. I am sorry. Both for being wrong about my assumptions and for arguing in such a manner. It was… Unbecoming. Unkind.” She lets out a frustrated huff of breath and says, “Who am I and who are  _ we _ if I cannot even trust my heart, my  _ love, _ with such a critical issue? That was a shortcoming on my fault.”

Cassandra guides Ellana to her side, and as they descend down from the parapets, she says, “We can do better. We  _ will _ do better in the future. But for now, let’s go back to bed.”

Ellana holds onto Cassandra’s hand tightly, intertwining their fingers together as they walk underneath the stars. Mythal’s scales of justice still twinkle brightly when they reach Ellana’s rooms. Ellana wanders over to the balcony and gazes at the constellation for a moment longer before she turns to join Cassandra. She pulls back the covers, and Cassandra helps tuck Ellana in. Cassandra pulls off her armor before she joins her lover and dreams of stars blazing in a sky that is not night.

The next morning, Cassandra wakes up after Ellana. A rare occurrence. The dim light of the dawn is just beginning to stretch over the sky, and so, Cassandra looks over for Ellana. She’s standing on the balcony, gazing at the sky. Cassandra pads over to check on her.

“Morning,” Ellana quietly says. Her hands are limp by her side — a stark contrast to the usual bouncy greeting Cassandra receives — and her eyes are bloodshot with too many fallen tears.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra breathes out as she reaches out to encircle Ellana in an embrace.

“Mourning,” Ellana dimly repeats. She sounds numb — too quiet — and although the word that she speaks sounds exactly the same, Cassandra knows what it means. 

Cassandra pulls Ellana in closer and rubs her shoulders in soft, soothing circles. It’s a gesture that Ellana has done for her many times over, and she hopes that it will offer Ellana the same kind of sentiment. Ellana cries, but it’s shorter and softer than the night before.

“My grandmother would have liked to meet you, I think,” she tells Cassandra. That makes tears prick at Cassandra’s eyes, but Ellana softly continues, “She was always so eager to see who I would settle down with. She always promised to be the one to marry me and the one to sew my wedding clothes since my mother would not be there to do it. But now…” Ellana cries once more and stops speaking. Cassandra can only hold her tight and try not to cry too.

Later, Cassandra finds Ellana with Sera, Blackwall, Mahanon in the gardens. Sera has bundles of seed packets in her arms, and when Cassandra passes by, she can hear Sera loudly say, “I’m not doing this because of some elfy shite or whatever. I just heard from Dalish that you people plant trees over your dead instead of burning them like normal funerals go. There’s not enough room in Skyhold to plant trees, so I figured that this would make up for it. Oh, Quizzy, don’t cry on me now!”

Ellana wipes her eyes and says, “Thank you. Thank you, Sera. This means so much to me.  _ Ma serannas.” _

“Yeah, yeah, just quit the crying, okay?” Sera says with a reddened flush over her freckled cheeks. She thrusts the seed packets at Mahanon and Ellana before she leaves. 

Blackwall chuckles and gestures over to a small pile of wood stacked up by the edge of the dirt. “I brought some oakwood and chiseling tools for you too,” he says. “I was talking with Dalish too. I know it’s not much, but I thought it might help.”

“Thank you, Blackwall,” Mahanon says. He folds his hands and dips into a small bow.

Blackwall chuckles again and tells Mahanon, “No need to thank me. I’d be happy to do anything if it helps.”

Mahanon turns a few of the seed packets over before he nudges Ellana. They exchange a look before they start in the garden. Ellana and Mahanon both squat by the wood and start carving small totems and charms out of the wood. Cassandra leaves then to carry on her errand for Josephine, but later, when the sun is well on its way to setting, she passes by the garden again. Ellana and Mahanon are still there, but now, there are small plots in the garden with freshly upturned dirt hiding the seeds and the oak totems that Ellana and Mahanon both plant. They’re covered with dirt and wood shavings, and they haven’t even come close to finishing the small section of dirt that they’re on. They don’t seem like they’re about to stop though.

The dragon remains outside Skyhold, but it moves to the back of the castle rather than blocking the main gate. From what Cassandra can tell, it’s been sleeping for most of its time there, buried amongst the snow and pine-capped slopes.

Ellana later returns to their room with nicks all over her palms from the knife that she used. She still has some dirt and shavings clinging to her blouse, so Cassandra gently brushes them away. “How was your day?” she asks.

Ellana sighs and pulls out a half-carved totem from her pocket. “We cannot carve enough staffs for every single person, so we are carving charms for each person. It is difficult, but we are trying to make ones that represent each person that we lost,” she says. “This one is for hahren Islandil. She used to tell us stories all the time, and her favorite stories were always about Fen’harel and his mischief.” 

The wood shows the feathered shaft of an arrow, but the rest is uncarved and unfinished. Ellana shrugs and shoves it back in her pocket. “It is work that we will continue tomorrow,” she says. “I will not let a single member of my clan die without laying them to rest.”

“You do that with others,” Cassandra observes. “Always after a battle, you wander around to the dead.”

It’s true. Ellana has a habit of drifting across the battlefield when the battle is done and gone. Amidst the blood and bodies, she bends down and closes each Inquisition soldier’s eyes while singing a soft funeral dirge. Sometimes, she slips something in their pockets or sprinkles dirt across their bodies. Sometimes, she can’t make it to the battlefield at the end due to excessive danger, so Ellana rocks back and forth with her eyes shut and her lips mouthing out something silent on the wind. It’s something deeply private for Ellana. She’s a woman who cannot tolerate loss, whether that be death of a single scout or a devastating loss like her clan. Cassandra never interfered with Ellana, and she will not interfere with this.

“Of course,” Ellana says with a faraway look in her eye. “All those unnumbered ghosts that haunt the waves cannot go without being honored for what they did in life.” She pulls the dirty blouse and stretches her limbs up. Then, she slips into bed with Cassandra and curls up close to her side. Cassandra lays a soft kiss on Ellana’s forehead, and in return, Ellana kisses Cassandra’s shoulder which is the closest part to her lips.

For the rest of the week, Ellana and Mahanon toil over the garden and the funeral rites. Blackwall and Sera stop by frequently to add more wood and seed packets to their stocks.

Josephine and Leliana spend that week feverishly writing letters to the cities of Wycome. Cassandra pulls Josephine aside to tell her to use her Pentaghast connections if need be. Leliana’s scouts report that the entire city is not completely burned, and if anything, the burned portions were thanks to the acts of the nobles rather than the dragon. The duke of Wycome is already dead by Ellana and Mahanon's hands, but the rest of the citizens seem to be relatively safe. Ironically, they’re taking refuge in the same valley that the Lavellan clan lived in temporarily. Josephine and Leliana grasp on those facts and weave them into a story that Ellana first told in that war room. They expose the red lyrium in the wells and paint a story of betrayal and evil intent over the nobility of Wycome. After all, they're not alive to defend their reputation, thanks to the Lavellans. Other than that, Josephine concludes the week by declaring their alliances with the Free Marches to be marginally more stable than they were before. 

At the end of the week, Cassandra passes by the courtyard to hear Ellana’s and Mahanon’s voice rising and falling together in a Dalish song. Dalish and Skinner from the Bull’s Chargers are already there, listening in. Cassandra glimpses other elves in Skyhold pausing by the gardens, both Dalish and city elf. Beside Skinner, Dalish mouths something along, but when she sees Cassandra, she nods towards her. “They’re starting the funeral songs,” Dalish informs Cassandra. “Don’t interrupt them.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Cassandra tells her. She turns to watch Ellana and Mahanon sway together as they hold hands in front of the section of dirt that they’ve cordoned off. All the seed packets are empty, and the wood is gone save for the shavings scattered over the dirt and the cobblestones. There are a few oak staffs lodged in the dirt, almost like trellises except these have intricate carvings lining their surfaces. The song rises and falls in mournful melodies, and although Cassandra can’t understand, her throat feels tight with the grief she feels for Ellana’s family.

As she watches Ellana, she thinks about the people in Ellana’s clan. Would they look like her? Would they be like her? Fleet-footed and bird-like? Light of heart and full of laughter? Despite Mahanon’s initial impression and drier humor, he holds a smile just as soft and tender as Ellana’s and a heart that is equally kind. Surely the rest of her clan would be the same. Cassandra doesn’t know more about the Lavellan clan aside from the scant details that Ellana told her, but she hopes that one day, Ellana will be willing to tell her more. 

For now, she gazes at the oak staffs and thinks about all the unnumbered ghosts and the ashes of a city. She thinks about the futures that could have been and the decisions that could have been made. But most importantly, Cassandra thinks about her Ellana and silently prays that her love will make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i remember finding out about the ending of game of thrones and thinking, "huh, that reminds me of something." lo and behold, it was the original rough draft of this chapter. anyways, i think i had a difficult time writing this chapter because i was writing about ellana and cassandra having their first major fight that threatened their relationship. i'm still not satisfied with this chapter, but i think, at this point, i'm better off letting it go into the world. hopefully, it's alright haha


	15. the blood-rimmed tide

When the dragon wakes, it wakes with a screech that could rattle the moons out of the sky.

Cassandra feels a familiar rush of fear skittering down her spine — like every time they fight a dragon in the field — but the Iron Bull lets out a loud whoop and shakes his battle-axe back at the dragon. Cassandra gives him a bemused look, but Iron Bull only shrugs. “Look at it,” he says. “That is _magnificent._ Isn’t your family full of dragon hunters, Seeker?”

“Yes, it’s something of a legacy,” Cassandra reluctantly answers.

Iron Bull looks far too eager for such a simple answer, and he nudges Cassandra as he asks, “So, when you face a dragon, does it get your heart pumping? Do you breathe a little faster, feel the blood racing?”

Cassandra dryly replies, “There is no other alternative. What else can we do? Relax and let it kill us? But if you are asking me if I get aroused by dragon hunting, then no.”

“Damn…” Iron Bull mutters. “Got me there, Seeker.”

Cassandra turns her attention back to the dragon. Ellana is standing in front of it, wreathed in silver magic shaped like the branches of a tree. They radiate out from her back, barely hovering above her skin, and worry bites at Cassandra’s heels for different reasons now. She tries to rationalize the fact that they’re all there to help protect Ellana. The Iron Bull, Solas, Cole, Mahanon, and Cassandra herself. If anything goes wrong — _and it won’t go wrong,_ Cassandra tries to think — they will be there with their weapons to bring down the dragon. _And Ellana, perhaps,_ Cassandra’s traitorous mind thinks.

“Mythal’s guardian,” Solas observes beside Cassandra. “There are stories of Mythal taking flight on dragon’s wings and almost scratching the sun and the moons in her flight over the land.” He gestures over to the dragon and continues, “There are also stories of guardians of the temples and of the gods. This one is a dragon, a creature of Mythal’s.” Solas hesitates.

Cole flickers briefly into sight and murmurs, “They weren’t the only ones.”

“No,” Solas exhales as he shakes his head. “There were others. They say that once, the wolves used to be the protectors.”

“Gods, great and terrible, and the shape of the divine,” Cole murmurs. “But they forgot that the wolves were always by their side. They forgot what the wolves could do too.”

Cassandra scratches her head and asks, “Is that why there are so many wolf statues in the Dales and in the temples that we’ve seen so far?”

Right beside Solas, Mahanon shrugs and says, “Some clans keep a statue of Fen’harel, far away from the campsite and turned away from us, to scare off our enemies and to ward off intruders. I used to think that the wolves as protectors were myths, but that story is true. The Emerald Knights of the Dales used to have huge dogs as their companions, but now, I think that they must have been some sort of wolf or at least a breed close to that original line.”

He turns back to watch his sister control the dragon, and the entire group falls silent when the dragon takes flight. Great drafts of wind gust from the force of its wings beating through the air, and it creates its own form of thunder as it soars away from Skyhold. Ellana dips into a small bow and then walks back to the rest of the group. The silver magic fades away from her, and when she finally reaches Cassandra, the only evidence of the Well of Sorrows is the brief shine of silver from her vallaslin before it fades.

“It is going to live in a nearby valley until I call for it,” Ellana says. “It has agreed to fight Corypheus’s dragon.” A wistful smile curls around her lips and she says, “It remembers the days of the divine. It said that it once flew beside the goddess’s side when she flew the skies in the shape of a dragon.”

“They were just talking about that,” Iron Bull says as he nods towards Cassandra, Solas, and Mahanon.

“Really?” Ellana asks. She glances over at her brother who shapes out a brief symbol with his hands. “Ah, the wolves,” she says, understanding glinting in her eyes. “It is peculiar. I used to think that the wolves were Fen’harel’s creatures, but I suppose that there must be some different legacy to them.” She wryly smiles. “After all, we seem to be wrong on many accounts in regards to the shreds of the past we have held onto. Is that not correct, Solas? But, for what it is worth, I believe that the Dread Wolf is nothing more than a lonely wolf away from its pack.”

“Really now?” Solas softly asks. He folds his hands around his staff, carefully and quietly, but Cassandra can see the way his hands briefly tremble.

Ellana nods. “Perhaps it was when he sealed away the Evanuris or when he made the Veil. Perhaps even before that,” she says. “But whatever it was, the loss of the gods and the loss of the spirits as friends would be maddening, I think. To watch the humans take over Arlathan would also be maddening. If he is out there, then I would not envy that god. For all his divinity, he is undeniably lonely, and I would not wish that on anyone.” She hesitates and shapes out a small symbol with her hands. A shape of a wolf and then, something that Cassandra thinks might be wings. “To be alone in the world is a curse not lightly given and not lightly taken,” Ellana says simply.

The Iron Bull gives her a curious look before he asks, “So, does the Well tell you anything about the past, Boss? Is it like a miniature school lecture constantly in your head?”

“Loud screaming, crying, confusion in the midst of many,” Cole replies instead. “This is not the temple they know, not the mind they were expecting, too many memories of a world they are no longer familiar with, _Mythal’enaste, Mythal’enaste,_ in the dreams, they come screaming.”

“Yes, Cole, that is correct,” Ellana says weakly. In that moment, she looks ancient and worn down, and Cassandra wants nothing more but to sweep up Ellana in a soft embrace and smooth away the wrinkles on Ellana’s forehead. Ellana sighs, “They do not speak much in the daytime, but they come alive at night in my dreams. I do not remember all of them, but it is… They are scattered. Fragmented. Confused. It is hard for both them and for me to communicate efficiently.”

She turns her head to gaze at the sky, and again, she looks so weary. She looks like she is carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Well, Cassandra supposes that is the entire crux of the matter. Ellana of Clan Lavellan is cradling the fate of the world between her hands, and that is a duty Cassandra would wish upon no one. Least of all, her own lover. Ellana inhales softly before she says, “But this is the final piece we need to battle Corypheus. Mythal’s dragon will fight Corypheus’s dragon and break the red lyrium from it. Then, Corypheus will be mortal, and we can end this all.” She folds her hands together and says, “And so, his life, hundreds and hundreds of years piled on it, will finally end.”

“He’s one of those blokes in your Chant that tried to find your god’s throne, yes?” Iron Bull muses.

“And so is the Golden city blackened, With each step you take in my Hall. Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting,” Cassandra recites. The words that she spent so long studying come to her almost immediately, and she finishes, “You have brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon all the world. Threnodies 8:13.”

“Apt,” Mahanon comments. “Doom upon all the world. That _is_ what he intends to do for the world, is it not?”

“Not if I can help it,” Ellana grimly says. She starts striding forward, back to Skyhold, and the rest of them follow.

Ellana holds that same sentiment strong in her heart, and it shows in the efforts that start whipping Skyhold into a frenzy. Cullen spends nearly day and night either in the war room or with his soldiers, training them for the final battle. The rookery is a constant flutter of ravens’ wings as Leliana and Josephine marshal their network of agents, connections, and influence. Scout Harding is barely anywhere to be seen, and when Cassandra does see her, she always has a stack of new reports in her hands.

Cassandra herself is busy as well. She reaches back to the Pentaghasts and forces more support out of them with clenched teeth and old etiquette clutched in her hands. She joins Cullen in training. She works the soldiers through new drills and lectures them on different types of demons and how to fight them more efficiently based on their different types. At night, she stays up and waits for Ellana to return. If she doesn’t come back, then Cassandra personally takes the matter in her own hands and searches for her. Usually, it’s the war room.

At one point, Cassandra opens the door without preamble and finds nothing. She hurries out of the room and starts combing through Skyhold, searching for her wayward lover. Cassandra finally finds Ellana staring at her memorial garden with silent tears rolling down her cheeks. Cassandra hurries to Ellana’s side and asks, “My love, were you here all night?”

Ellana reaches out to brush her hands over the oak staffs planted in the ground. The rain and wind have worn the wood down to smoothened surfaces, almost polished by the elements. The characters and the symbols inscribed in the oakwood remain though. “What if I fail?” Ellana asks in the barest of whispers. “How can I save Thedas if I cannot even save my own family?” She looks up at Cassandra, and her eyes are glassy. “On nights like these, just before the final battle, I remember some of the faces of the soldiers and scouts that never made it. I remember the bodies after Adamant, after the Temple, and I do not know if I can do this any longer.”

Cassandra brushes some of the tears off Ellana’s cheeks with her thumb and tenderly kisses her. “You can,” she says against Ellana’s lips. She kisses Ellana once more and pulls back to tell her, “Look at what you’ve already accomplished. You have the strength to do this as well as the kindness. If you cannot believe in yourself, then believe in the me that believes in you.”

Ellana nestles close to Cassandra and sighs, “You comfort me so much, _vhenan._ I cannot understand how you do it.”

Cassandra curls her arms around Ellana and holds her close in the garden and the moonlight. “You comfort me as well,” she says. “I love you, you know that?”

“I do.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I love you,” Cassandra confesses. “And I’m scared too. I’m scared of losing you.”

Ellana laughs mirthlessly. “The same goes for me as well, my heart,” she says. “I would murder Corypheus with nothing more than my bare hands if he ever laid a hand on you.”

“I would like you to have at least a staff or a sword in your hands if you are planning to do that,” Cassandra wryly says. She’s rewarded with a more genuine laugh, and Cassandra slowly starts guiding Ellana out of the garden and back to their own room. “I believe you can do it,” she says. “But only if you get the rest that you need. You wouldn’t even be able to take on a single nug if you do not sleep.”

Ellana snorts at that and slyly says, “We could be doing something else in our bed that is not necessarily sleeping.”

“Silver-tongued,” Cassandra scoffs.

Ellana rolls her eyes. “You know you love it when I use it on you though,” she mutters.

_“Ellana!”_

Cassandra doesn’t like admitting it, but she’s so weak to Ellana’s wiles. When they reach the room, Ellana’s hands reach for the ties on Cassandra’s armor. Now, she’s so much faster than she first was at undressing Cassandra. It’s an art that Ellana delights in refining, and it’s an art that Cassandra finds that she can’t say no to. Piece by piece, Ellana strips away the armor and the clothes, and with it, she strips away Cassandra’s inhibitions.

“Are you going to sing for me tonight?” Ellana muses.

Cassandra flushes red, but she manages to retort, “That depends entirely on you.”

“Oh, is that a challenge?” Ellana murmurs with a twinkle in her eye. She starts pressing kisses on Cassandra’s skin, working down from her cheek to her ear and her neck. She nips at Cassandra’s collarbone, and Cassandra’s so keyed up that she arches up against Ellana’s touch willingly. Her body feels so sensitive, and when Ellana’s clothes brush against Cassandra’s bare abdomen and thighs, it adds a level of sensation to the entire experience.

Ellana’s hands roam all over Cassandra’s body, brushing and pinching and teasing skin and breasts and thighs. Her mouth follows ever downward, and she laves her tongue against Cassandra’s nipples. Cassandra chokes back a frustrated noise when Ellana pointedly avoids Cassandra’s sex. Ellana looks upward, and her eyes shine darkly with desire and deep appreciation. Then, she presses soft sparks right against Cassandra’s sex. That gets a deep moan out of her, and Ellana laughs. “I win the challenge,” she says breathily before she pours more magic out of her fingers. Cassandra arches up against the intimate thrills running through her body.

They fall asleep together after that with their hands intertwined.

They wake up together to the first day of battle.

The dragon soars over their heads and over the entirety of Skyhold when Cassandra and Ellana head to the War Room. Green light stains the clouds, and already, Cassandra can see a similar rift in the sky to the Breach. Ellana’s Anchored hand twitches and sprays green sparks. Ellana almost doubles over from the pain, but she grits her teeth and continues onward. Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen are already there at the war table with grim expressions mirrored across each of their faces. Cullen reaches over for a piece and sets it right down on the Valley of Sacred Ashes on the map. “It’s time,” he says.

“The final reckoning,” Leliana says softly. “Corypheus is not content to wait.”

“We don’t have enough forces,” Cullen frets. “They’re still coming back from the Arbor Wilds.”

“This is madness,” Josephine says. Her hands flutter around her with gestures as she speaks. “I know we have been preparing for this, but we calculated a battle at least _weeks_ from today!”

“Corypheus must have been expecting us to think like that,” Cassandra says. Her face creases into a frown. “He must have fed us wrong information to one of our agents or scouts.”

Ellana does not say anything but stares at the piece with an intense look suffusing her features. Then, she looks up at Cassandra and says, “We ride today. Will you go with me, my heart?”

“Always,” Cassandra promises her.

They start riding to the Valley of Sacred Ashes, and Cassandra distantly remembers a day so very long ago when she was riding to the valley for different reasons. The Conclave seems like an entire age ago, and when she thinks back to everything that they’ve done and accomplished, she marvels at it. Most of all, she looks at Ellana and wonders how she was so blessed to meet and love someone like her. She thinks back to all those fumbling times when she had no words to express her emotions for Ellana, and she thinks back to the night just before when Ellana whispered to her, _“Ar lath ma.”_ Cassandra swallows hard and promises herself to keep Ellana safe.

When they arrive to the valley, red lyrium is already implanted into the ground. It crackles with enough energy to make Cassandra’s teeth ache and her senses vibrate on the verge of oversensitivity. Their meager forces — compared to Corypheus’s at least — start charging into the tide of battle. Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and Mahanon follow Ellana as she heads towards the heart of the matter.

When they reach Corypheus, the smugness on his face is so redolent that Cassandra wants to punch it out of him. “So, where is your Maker now?” he drawls. “Call Him. Call down His wrath upon me.” He cackles at that and sneers, “You cannot, for He does not exist. I am Corypheus. I shall deliver you from this _lie_ in which you linger. Bow before your new god and be spared.”

“I do not believe in the Maker,” Ellana evenly says. “I have my own gods, but I do not need them to show me what a miserable, pathetic thing you are. Look at yourself. You rely on an artifact from my own gods to give yourself apotheosis.” She draws herself up to her full height and hisses, “It ends here.”

The rest of the world fades out in the face of combat now. Cassandra is first to press on forward with her shield raised up. Shades, demons, ghostly things tear themselves from the ground to attack them, and Cassandra braces against their blows with her shield. That allows Ellana and Solas just enough time to blast waves of magic down from their staffs. Varric tosses caltrops and sets traps before he retreats to take aim with Bianca. Mahanon slips into the shadows and creeps up ahead, only to dart into sight with his arrow drawn tight against his bow. Each and every one of his arrows flies true. At one point, Cassandra braces one demon against her shield with the flat of her blade and points it towards Mahanon. He shoots it straight in the eye, and it falls to the ground, shrieking. Solas sends a fist of stone pounding down on it to extinguish the last spark of life from it.

When more demons come, Ellana exhales and slips her staff on her back. She draws the hilt of her spirit blade from her belt and summons the long blade with a spray of magic. “Cassandra!” she calls out. “Shield!”

Cassandra automatically raises her shield, and Ellana starts sprinting towards her. Mahanon catches a glimpse of what she’s doing and cries out, “Use it to launch her forward!” Cassandra changes the angle of her shield and squats down. Ellana lunges forward, feet first, and Cassandra pushes upward with as much force as she possibly can. Ellana twists in the air and fade-steps forward into the air with her blade pointed downward. She uses gravity to stab a hulking demon down and tumbles forward to slam a series of ice mines into the ground with her spare hands. The next wave of shades falls, and Ellana gets up and dusts the dirt off her legs.

Cassandra turns back to Mahanon and questions, “How did you know what she meant?”

“Well, for starters, she is my twin sister,” Mahanon says with a shrug. “And also, she tried this trick with the Iron Bull once on the Storm Coast.”

“Of course it was with the Iron Bull,” Varric mutters.

“If I recall correctly, they were fighting a dragon and a giant all at the same time,” Mahanon offers up.

Cassandra wants to drag her hands down her face at the mere mention of that. She remembers lecturing the Iron Bull and Ellana about that for _days._ She almost does, but that’s when the red lyrium dragon lands down in front of them. Mythal’s dragon comes chasing after it and belches fire down on it from above. Cassandra sprints to dodge the gouts of fire that the red lyrium dragon spits out.

Solas traps one of the dragon’s legs with sharp ice, and the cold mana crackles around it to anchor one part of it to the ground. Varric starts peppering crossbolts into the dragon’s thigh, right above the ice. The first few don’t make it past the scales, but then, Varric starts aiming in places where the dragon’s scales have flaked off or where the red lyrium juts out of its body. Mahanon also  shoots an arrow into its neck, and in that same moment, Ellana darts in to slash the trapped leg with her spirit blade. The dragon swipes its tail and screeches from the pain, but Cassandra is there to block the tail with her shield. In a way, this feels like the Pentaghast legacy dogging at her heels, but in the moment, she’s too busy trying to stab a dragon’s tail to really think too much of it.

The sensation of Solas’s magic shifts in and out, weaving through the battlefield almost as imperceptibly as the Fade itself. Cassandra’s grateful when it suddenly materializes as a barrier around her. Bolstered by the additional shield, Cassandra circles around to the other side of the dragon and plunges her sword into a wound it sustained from Mythal’s dragon. Ellana’s magic settles over Cassandra as well as an additional barrier, and Cassandra uses the opportunity to stab the same place repeatedly. She manages to widen the wound by a considerable amount.

Ellana’s magic tastes like freshness, a mountain breeze, a spring’s worth of wildflowers. She told Ellana once that her magic felt like open fields and open skies, and now that she’s surrounded by a swathe of Ellana’s magic, she confirms the truth of that statement once more. She’s grateful for Ellana’s magic though. Ellana’s habit of using magic like a net serves them well. Ice mines blast through demons and the red lyrium dragon as they come towards them, and the ice keeps them anchored to the ground long enough for Mahanon and Cassandra to dispatch them.

Finally, they work the dragon down until it drags its body against the ground, still snarling and spitting fire. Mythal’s dragon lands on its back and buries its claws into the red lyrium dragon’s neck and shoulders. It grinds the red dragon’s face into the ground and clamps its jaw shut. With that opportunity, Ellana fade-steps forward and drives her spirit blade squarely into the dragon’s eye. Her magic gathers around her hands and sends bolts of lightning and ice surging into the dragon’s eye and skull. WIth that, the dragon lets out a dying keen and falls over, dead.

Mythal’s dragon lets out a victory screech with the red lyrium dragon’s death and leans down to nuzzle against Ellana with a proud purr. Ellana scratches the dragon’s snout, but they can’t stay there for long. Corypheus is still alive, and now, he has nowhere else to run with the death of his dragon.

Demons still chase after them, but finally, they manage to corner Corypheus. They’re starting to wear out though. Solas and Ellana have gone through vials upon vials of lyrium, and Mahanon’s stamina is flagging. He has a nasty wound scoring down his back, but he refuses to accept any kind of healing spell. Cassandra ends up passing both him and Varric the last of her healing potions.

In the end, what gets Cassandra is not Corypheus. It’s a miserable terror demon that jumps out from her shadow and pins her to the ground, piercing through her armor and skin with its terrible claws. It slashes at her viciously, and she loses her grip on her shield. She screams from the pain as it tears through her body, but she musters up enough strength to pierce its chest with her own sword. The damage is still done though. She gasps out something that she can’t even hear anymore. Her breath leaves her in wet, bloody gasps, and her limbs feel so heavy.

“Seeker!” Varric yells. He pulls the terror demon off her body. The demon’s body lets out a wet squelch as he drags it off her blade. He scrabbles at his pockets for the last healing potion they have between all of them — one that Cassandra gave him — and starts dribbling it into Cassandra’s mouth after he pulls out the cork with his teeth.

“Cassandra!” Ellana screams. She tries to run towards Cassandra, but Corypheus moves in her way to block her. He rears back and slams his fists forward, sending blasts of magic that knock Ellana back.

“I will kill you so painfully that you will pray that you were never born!” Corypheus bellows. “Do not dare to belittle me or ignore me, little rat.”

Cassandra drags herself up to see Lavellan — _her Ellana_ — grit her teeth and snarl out, low and heavy, “You cannot kill me in a way that matters.” Corypheus only barks out a harsh laugh, but Ellana casts a desperate, worried glance at Cassandra while the magister consumes himself with his mockery. Her expression cracks apart to reveal all of her pain and worry, but it hardens into the mask of the Inquisitor that she’s perfected over all these aching months. Ellana turns back to Corypheus and repeats in that dangerous tone, “You cannot kill me in a way that matters.”

Cassandra’s thoughts mirror the same sentiment, and in that moment, she can only think, _Corypheus can kill me for all I care, but I will die if he kills Ellana, he cannot touch her, he cannot take her life, I will not let her die._

She hauls herself up by using her sword to prop herself up. Her shield is too heavy on her arm, but she braces herself against the weight. _He will not kill her_ , she swears to herself. _He will not touch her._ And then, with a loud and piercing scream, Cassandra raises her sword to the heavens and calls on every particle of lyrium she can sense in the blood of the fallen templars. The wrath of heaven descends down on the battlefield, and her line of vision burns a brilliant white. All of her Seeker abilities feel like they are burning away at the ends of her nerves, but the screams of demons and most importantly, Corypheus, drowns out the sound of her own agonizing cry. Every part of her body feels like it’s burning like the pillar of lyrium-fire that rages in front of her. Then, her vision clears enough to see a blazing pillar of light from the heavens above fueled by all of her Seeker abilities. The wrath of heaven itself burns through the demons flanking Corypheus, and the magister himself tries to claw himself out of its inexorable fury. Ellana’s hand flares green, bright enough to rival the pillar, and she throws herself into battle.

“I am the First of Clan Lavellan,” Ellana declares.

Corypheus cackles — a low, grating sound that’s even worse from the burn marks circling his throat — and he asks, “Is that supposed to scare me, little rat?”

Ellana levels a cold glare at Corypheus and snarls, “And I am the last of Clan Lavellan. I bear the blessings and the history of the goddess, Mythal. I do not fear you, Corypheus. You are a false god, and I have killed the vessel of a winter god before you. What do you have to boast?”

“I have stepped into the Golden City itself and saw that the seat of gods was empty!” Corypheus bellows. His dragon screams above to emphasize his words. “You cannot even begin to imagine the gravity of the power I wield! Cower before your rightful master!”

“I will not waver, I will not break,” Ellana hisses. “Not to a forsaken, godless fool like you.” She raises her Anchored hand, and the familiar sensation of her magic settles over the battlefield. _Open fields and open skies,_ Cassandra thinks hazily. Lightning cracks through the clouds, and Ellana steadies herself with the web of mana she weaves over the battlefield. She navigates the warp and weft of the strands with practiced ease, and she raises her Anchor to sew up the seams. Fire and lightning, storm and ice, all these and more rain down from the heavens in a raging maelstrom. Ellana remains at the eye of the storm, and the Anchor marks her place.

Her magic melds with the scarlet of the lyrium Corypheus fuses his magic with. The blood-rimmed tide of magic swells and breaks around the two. Silver shoots through the clouds, and although Cassandra can barely see anything, she can see the outline of branches glowing bright silver, almost white. Cassandra can’t see Ellana, but she suspects that her spectral wings of branch and tree from the Well of Sorrows are fully fledged on her back. Green and silver whip around the red, foaming up at the edges like seafoam on the edge of a beach.

Cassandra stumbles away from the mass of magic. It’s so bright that it’s almost blinding. So does Solas and Varric. Mahanon is the only one to try and stand his ground. He raises his final arrow to the skies and calls out, _“Dirthamen enansal!_ May Dirthamen find the secret in the shadow, may Dirthamen find his heart, may Dirthamen call forth his twin, Falon’Din, to bring death to the deathless! Fen’harel, guide my hands and make me a _felassan!_ ” The arrow’s head sparks alight with a strange sort of fire that flickers black and cold blue. The few dregs of magic in Mahanon’s body — nothing compared to his sister but still _something_ — circles around his hands as he nocks that last arrow and shoots it into the storm.

The arrow flies, slower than Cassandra ever would expect, but it trails behind the same blue and black fire. It splits the tide of magic in half, revealing Ellana and Corypheus in the center. The arrow continues on its path and lands true: right in Corypheus’s heart. It burns black and then brands the same pattern of Mahanon’s vallaslin into Corypheus’s skin. They spread out and branch over, binding him down to the ground. The clouds of magic thin, and now, Cassandra sees the ghostly wings on Ellana’s back.

“I call on Mythal, the All-Mother,” Ellana’s voice rings out. “Born of sea, deliverer of justice, and protector of moon and sun and earth alike. I come to you with clear mind and open heart, and in your name, I smite down Corypheus the Deathless. Let Dirthamen illuminate his secret from the shadows, let Falon’Din follow his twin’s symbol, and may Mythal’s justice be the final smite to end it all.”

She raises her Anchored hand and pulls down a bolt of lightning from the sky with her bare hands. The world glows white and implodes. The force knocks Cassandra back and onto the ground. The breath escapes her lungs in a sudden rush, and she can feel great winds rushing around her. This is how it began, and now, it seems as though the Maker has a twisted sense of humor in making it end with an explosion.

But, the world grows silent once more.

Cassandra slowly crawls and then forces herself on her feet. Around Ellana, there’s a crater ringed by broken rock. Ellana’s body is prone in the center of the crater, and a few yards away from her is the crumpled, shattered body of Corypheus. Ellana doesn’t move yet, and Cassandra’s heart feels like it’s about to give out. _Let her be alive, let her be alive,_ she silently prays. _I will pay anything, anything that you want, Maker, if you let her keep her life._

Solas and Varric struggle towards Ellana as well, but Mahanon — who’s closest to the crater — almost trips over his feet as he rushes towards his sister. When he screams out her name with other elvhen, Ellana’s body twitches. She manages to prop herself up and turn towards the sound of Mahanon’s voice.

She’s alive. She’s alive, she’s alive, _she’s alive._

Cassandra starts sprinting towards her. Mahanon reaches her first and crushes her into a hug, but with every step that Cassandra takes, the silver recedes from Ellana’s face. She stumbles into the crater, and Mahanon pushes Ellana into Cassandra’s arms. She clutches Ellana’s body tight and twines her hands into her dark hair. Ellana curls closer towards Cassandra. “There was a moment after the explosion when I thought for certain you were dead,” she chokes out. “I prayed, ‘don’t take her from me, not after all we’ve been through.’ And then, I saw you through the smoke.” She breathes in, and despite the heavy scent of smoke and blood and ash permeating them both, she can scent the underlying smell of embrium on Ellana’s skin. “Sometimes, the Maker is kind,” she rasps out.

Ellana pulls back to cradle Cassandra’s face. The first thing that Cassandra feels is not Ellana’s skin but wet blood and ash. Cassandra steps back entirely and sees the extent of damage that Ellana took. Her hands — palms and fingers and wrists and even forearms — are all burned over and over with jagged streaks. Blood slowly leaks from the charred edges of her flesh, and Ellana gives her a weak smile. “Lightning,” she tells Cassandra. “I held lightning with my bare hands and drove it into Corypheus’s heart.”

“No,” Cassandra says, aghast. “Solas, Mahanon, _anyone,_ help her, help her!” She digs through her own pouches for any healing potion, but she finds only empty glass. She drank the last one long ago.

“Look at yourself, _vhenan,”_ Ellana says softly. She staggers but manages to right herself. She gestures to the multiple lacerations and wounds, especially the most recent ones that Cassandra sustained from the terror demon. “You are worse off than I am.”

Cassandra sucks in a breath tainted with the taste of blood, and she says, “No, I would rather take the wound than have you hurt.”

“I know,” Ellana says. “And know that I would do the same for you.”

They both look at Solas in hopes of healing magic, but he’s kneeling down on the ground. He cradles the shattered pieces of the orb in his hands, and when he looks up, there’s a startling pain and grief in his eyes. Cassandra looks at Ellana, trying to figure what’s going on, but she sees understanding slowly dawn in Ellana’s eyes. She walks forward, shakily but steadily. Ellana bends down clumsily and reaches out with her lightning-scarred hands to hold Solas’s own hands. She murmurs something in elvhen, something that makes Mahanon stiffen, but towards the end, she says in Common, “You were always just a lonely wolf, were you not?”

“It’s over,” Solas breathes out. “It’s all over.”

“It is not over yet,” Ellana tries. “There is always hope left. We can rebuild. We have already been rebuilding for so many years.” But Solas shakes his head, and Ellana sighs. “I will not see you again, will I?” she painfully says.

Solas gives no answer, but he reaches out with trembling hands to heal Ellana’s hands. The jagged lines that the lightning left behind do not go away, but the bleeding stops and the flesh seals up. _“Ma serannas,”_ Ellana says. Now, a single tear rolls down her eyes. Solas nods wordlessly, and Ellana gets up.

She walks back towards Mahanon, Varric, and Cassandra. She reaches out to hold Mahanon’s and Cassandra’s hands. Mahanon still gapes at Solas with a stricken expression, but Varric hesitantly asks, “Chuckles?”

Ellana lets go of Mahanon’s hand just long enough to tug at Varric’s sleeve. Then, she starts stumbling back to where the rest of their forces are congregated. “Leave him be,” she says softly. “He will not come back with us.”

“That’s what he said at the beginning of all this,” Varric says. Disbelief hangs heavy in his voice. “But I-I never thought he’d actually _leave._ I thought… I thought he changed his mind.”

“We must get back. We all need healing, Cassandra especially,” Ellana says. She plods on forward, and she squeezes Cassandra’s hand. “He has chosen his own path, and we must continue on ours. Perhaps we will meet him again in the future. I suspect we will.”

Ellana tips her head up to gaze at the now-blue sky. The green and red recedes from the clouds to reveal the sky, devoid of any sputtering, crackling rift in the center of it. It looks deceptively calm compared to the veritable maelstrom that it was. Ellana sighs and glances at Cassandra. A smile twitches around her cracked lips when she looks at Cassandra, and for a brief moment, Cassandra forgets all her pain and feels only the gentle, grateful hum of love resonating in her heart.

They won. They survived. They did it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe i snuck in the mushroom meme and also, i'm writing and posting at 2 am again
> 
> anyways, i think we've got one or two more chapters until we reach the end of this fic? what a journey, honestly. it's been a delight to write in spite of the bouts of writer's block i got towards the end. let me know what your thoughts were in the comments! i'd be delighted to read them and chat :")


	16. a shoreless sea

Even though Corypheus is gone, there is still work to be done. In fact, Cassandra suspects that Ellana is even busier now that Corypheus is finally gone for good. Ellana looks like she enjoys this work far more though.

Their soldiers leave their swords and shields behind in the armory, and instead, they take up shovels and hoes to rebuild the places that Corypheus ruined. The mages follow after them with careful hands and sun-bright staffs to remove the red lyrium nodes rooted in place. It takes time, and it takes effort, but Cassandra easily admits that she far prefers the work of peacetime over war. Ellana herself joins the efforts and frequently travels out to help rebuild towns and plow fields over until the dark loam of the ground covers over the bloodstains and the bones. It’s happier work to be sure. At one point, Ellana almost misses a diplomatic meeting with the King of Ferelden in favor of spending the night in a farmer’s house and helping him rebuild. Cassandra deeply suspects that the new litter of mabari puppies at the farmer’s house largely contributed to that, but no matter. 

Still, Ellana lapses into moments of grief at times. Cassandra still finds Ellana tending to her memorial garden at midnight or staring up at the intricate frescoes in the now-absent rotunda of the tower. Another thing that makes Cassandra fear for Ellana is the fact that the green ringing around Ellana’s dark irises have expanded, flooding the former rich brown with brilliant green. The inner ring of color around her pupils remains brown, but there’s significantly more green than Cassandra ever remembers seeing. The sight sends fear shivering through her heart, so when they lie together for the night, Cassandra clutches Ellana even tighter.

Later, they call Ellana to Val Royeaux to decide who the next Divine will be. 

This is a topic that Cassandra and Ellana spend a good deal of nights discussing. At first, the idea feels foreign to Cassandra, but the more she thinks about it, the more fine she feels about it. Then, one night when the moons are both full, Cassandra leans back against the sheets and stretches her naked limbs upward as she muses, “I think I might enjoy being the Divine.” She turns to look at Ellana and continues, “I could continue my hopes and plans for the Seekers in that place, and we could repair Thedas. Patch it back together, make it whole again, fix things so that something like this doesn’t happen again.”

Ellana never responds back to her, and instead, she leans down only to start kissing her way down Cassandra’s body again. The conversation is left unfinished, and soon, Cassandra, Leliana, and Vivienne find themselves trail after Lavellan to stand before the Sunburst Throne. The robes of the Divine hang immaculate and white beside the Throne. One of the Revered Sisters beckons Ellana forward and says, “Inquisitor Lavellan, we’ve shared communications, and we now place the decision to you.”

Ellana doesn’t hesitate for a single burning second and says, “I nominate Sister Nightingale as the next Divine.”

The decision startles Cassandra, and she feels like her heart is leaping into her throat. Yet, she can do nothing else but watch as Ellana carefully slips the robes around Leliana’s startled shoulders and places the hat down upon her scarlet hair. Ellana grips Leliana’s shoulders and murmurs something barely imperceptible. To that, Leliana nods, and with a swell of music from the orchestra waiting in the wings, Leliana ascends the Sunburst Throne.

Cassandra stays long enough to give her congratulations to Leliana before hurrying back to her room. She knows that Ellana’s following her, but she doesn’t speak until they’re both back in their room. “You did not make me the Divine,” Cassandra exhales out.

“No, I did not,” Ellana returns. She’s wearing her Dalish regalia — the same one as the one she wore to Halamshiral — and she hides her hands behind her back and beneath her cloak as she gazes at Cassandra.

“Have… Have I done something to make you doubt in me? Do you doubt my faith?” Cassandra wonders helplessly. “I told you once about how we could reform the Chantry for the better. ? Do you think me unworthy of the Sunburst Throne?”

That makes Ellana recoil and hiss,  _ “Never.” _

“Then why are you making Leliana the Divine?” Cassandra asks. 

Ellana reaches out with careful hands and cups her hands around Cassandra’s cheeks. Her hands feel warm against Cassandra’s skin, and the long sleeves of her Dalish robes brush against Cassandra’s sleeves. “Because I believe you should be free,” Ellana tells Cassandra with as much sincerity as she’s ever heard from Ellana. “Because I believe you would do better work for your faith and for the rest of Thedas outside Val Royeaux. Because I believe the Sunburst Throne would become your trap.”

She pulls away to gesture towards the shut door. “Look at your dreams and your goals. You cannot rebuild the Seekers if you are not there in person to lead it and to guide it,” she says. “Placing that responsibility and that role in the hands of another person will mean that you will not be able to directly pass down your hopes for a better Order. And Cassandra,  _ ma’lath, ma’vhenan, _ you told me yourself that you preferred action over etiquette. Being in the Sunburst Throne removes you from that very same action and places you in the heart of bureaucracy.” Ellana hesitates and offers up a shaky smile. “Or at least, I think I am using that word correctly. That is what Josephine said once when she referred to Chantry hierarchy and structure in Val Royeaux.”

Cassandra can’t find the words to say, but she goes over to sit down on the bed. She props her elbows on her knees and stares at the patterns in the rug while she tries to gather her thoughts. The Sunburst Throne being a trap is admittedly a thought she’s had before, and it’s true that Cassandra has always been a woman of action rather than a woman of bureaucracy. It’s just that she’s spent the last few weeks thinking about the platform the Chantry would give her for reinstating the Seekers and rebuilding peace across Thedas. 

“Please, do not be angry with me or Leliana over this,” Ellana says in a tremulous voice. Cassandra glances at her and sees how Ellana twists her fingers together and shifts in her place. “I knew you would not be happy when you heard of it, but please know that I tried to keep your best interests at heart,” she says. “Know that I would never doubt you, Cassandra. In fact, I would trust you with my life and beyond that, my world.” The words come out of her, swift and jumbled together with too much anxiety lacing through them all.

So, Cassandra stands up and wordlessly pulls Ellana into an embrace. “I just need time,” Cassandra confesses. “I’ve been thinking and dreaming of this and nothing else for the past several weeks.”

Ellana pulls away, expression drenched in too much melancholy for Cassandra’s liking. “What’s wrong?” Cassandra asks.

Ellana buries her face against Cassandra’s chest and with a muffled voice, she confesses, “I also did not want to lose you to the Chantry.”

“Ellana…” Cassandra breathes out. 

Ellana won’t look her in the eye, but she weakly says, “Perhaps that was too much of me to say.”

Cassandra still doesn’t have much to say, but she tries to crack a joke as she says, “Is this payback for me making you the Inquisitor?”

Ellana soberly replies, “I would say that this is the opposite. I took away a title instead of giving it to you.” 

Cassandra runs her hands through Ellana’s hair before she places one kiss atop her head. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You haven’t lost me yet.”

That night, instead of rejoining the party, Cassandra pulls Ellana to bed and peels off the layers that make them Inquisitor and Seeker until they are nothing more than Ellana and Cassandra. They don’t speak of titles anymore, and instead, they wordlessly share kisses and touches. 

The next morning, Cassandra wakes up before Lavellan and leaves the bed to stare out at the window. Val Royeaux is slowly beginning to wake up. She can glimpse the bakers with their trays as always and the cobblers and merchants and others all filtering through the cobblestoned streets. It’s peaceful, and for once, Cassandra doesn’t feel that familiar sense of urgency and worry smoldering deep in the corners of her mind. There is no Corypheus, no wretched demon, no red templar to threaten their safety now. Granted, there’s still a few pockets of rebellion, but it’s nothing that they can’t handle. 

Cassandra looks back at Lavellan’s sleeping face. Her nose is wrinkled and she has half her face pressed into the pillow. One hand is tightly clutching the sheets to her while the other — the marked one — is stretched towards the place where Cassandra was sleeping. Cassandra smiles at it and pads over to the bed before she slips under the sheets and falls asleep beside Ellana again.

Cassandra starts dedicating time to finding the last few remnants of the Seekers. They gather to Skyhold and come in slow trickles. One by one, they arrive to the gates. Some have shame burning on their faces as they admit to being passive bystanders. Others are wounded — not in the body but in the soul — and twitch against the brush of magic and the thinning Veil everpresent in Skyhold’s atmosphere. But they come. And when they come, Cassandra gathers them all close, men and women she has spent time after time with, and asks them, “Are you willing to rejoin? Are you willing to help me forge our Order into something better than before?” 

When they nod, Cassandra feels a tight, winged thing start to flutter and beat inside her heart. Tremulous and aching, Cassandra looks at each and every face that returned to the fold and sees the same kind of thought and emotion mirrored on their faces. Hope, bright and feathered, in all of its glory. Later, when they file out of Cassandra’s office, Cole creeps in. He whispers in a thin, reedy voice, “They gleam, Cassandra. Spirits pressing against the Veil to meet their friends, friends whose minds they touched so long ago, spirits of faith, strong and bold and vigilant in the nights of doubt. They are here, Cassandra, and they hear your call.”

“Truly?” Cassandra asks as she looks at Cole. To think that she once called him demon and shied away from thoughts of spirits and demons in the earthly world. Cassandra shuts her eyes and lets that tremulous bit of hope curve her lips up into a small smile. She’s changed, and she thinks it’s for the better. She opens her eyes and feels like the future is pressing at her, jumping and leaping at the chance to live forward.

And it does. 

The world starts to turn the right away again, and Cassandra watches as Ellana helps guide it again. One night as they sit on the balcony and sip tea, Ellana exhales out a puff of breath that coalesces in the chilly mountain air. She wraps her blanket tighter around her and stares at the thin crescents of the moons as they swing over the sky and the mountain peaks like scythes in the midnight air. “I will have to remain the Inquisitor,” she suddenly says. She turns her gaze from the moons to Cassandra, and her new-green eyes reflect the moonlight flatly off her irises. “They will not let me retire peacefully or anything like that.” 

“I don’t think so,” Cassandra slowly and unwillingly admits. “The world doesn’t forget heroes so easily.” 

“How weary,” Ellana sighs. She stretches out her Anchored hand and lifts up to the sky as if she was touching the moons. The center of her Mark gleams and begins to sputter, but Ellana traps the light in the cage of her hand and keeps it from sparking up. Cassandra follows the green light on Ellana’s palm with her gaze and watches as the green slowly spreads out like veins on the underside of Ellana’s wrist. 

“You could do great things with that power though,” Cassandra tries in a meager attempt to cheer Ellana up. “You could lobby for the laws that you want laid in different countries and help improve lives across Thedas.” 

“True,” Ellana says. “But there is something that makes me feel as though there is something coming on the horizon.”

“Why?” Cassandra asks. She’s a bit dumbfounded at the statement actually. “We won the war.”

“Did we?” Ellana muses. She drops her hand back down to her side and hides the green light of the Anchor underneath her blanket. “Perhaps I am simply being too wary. I do not know, but something makes me feel like my job is not yet done.”

Cassandra wonders if this is a good time to tell her now. However, before she can muster up the nerve to say anything, Ellana smiles at her. “But that seems to be the case for everyone else,” she says. “Dorian tells me he plans to go back to Tevinter and change things at the heart of it all. Leliana is, of course, the Divine now. Sera is going out to join her Jennies more and more while Vivienne has already moved back to Orlais.” Ellana doesn’t mention Solas, but Cassandra glimpses Ellana move her lips in the shape of his name silently before she ceases and tips her head back up to gaze at the sky. “And of you, my love? Are you going to go out into the world?” she asks. “Another grand adventure?” 

“Yes,” Cassandra says slowly. “But if you don’t want me to go, I will stay with you.”

Ellana wrinkles her brow and asks, “Why would I ever say no? You are your own person, Cassandra, and I would not hold you if you did not want to stay.”

“The thing is,” Cassandra says, hesitation making the spaces between her words longer. “I don’t know if I want to stay or leave.”

“You said you wanted to rebuild the Seekers,” Ellana says. She turns her gaze from the scythe-like moons to examine Cassandra’s face carefully. “If going out and doing the hands-on work yourself will aid that cause better, then I would tell you to leave and follow that dream.”

“But what about you?” Cassandra finally says. “What will you do when everyone’s gone?” 

Ellana’s eyes deepen into a wistful sort of gaze, and she looks out over the mountains. Silence passes between them as she mulls over the question with a deliberating kind of carefulness. “I will continue on,” she says. “Perhaps I will go back to the clans and see what I can do to help. I could seek out the elves from the Temple of Mythal again to see if I can return the Well to them. If not that, then I still have a number of diplomatic obligations to fulfill with Josephine. Whatever it may be, I will always keep in touch with you. Fear not.”

Cassandra leans against Ellana and reaches out to interlace their fingers together underneath the warmth of the blanket. The Anchor sparks between them, but Cassandra tries to silence it with her touch and her Seeker senses. Underneath the weight of her power, the Anchor quiets and the pain throbbing underneath Ellana’s skin lessens. “I’ll keep in touch as well,” Cassandra promises.

The next day, Cassandra saddles up a horse to start the journey out in Thedas. Ellana helps her, and just before Cassandra leaves, Ellana presses a carved Dalish charm in her hand. “To keep the Dread Wolf from finding your scent and to remind you of me when you are lonely,” she says. 

“I’ll write back frequently,” Cassandra promises. “If you need to send a letter to me, send it first to the Seekers’ base. They can forward it to me.”

Ellana scoffs a little at that and flicks Cassandra on the forehead. “I have my ways of sending letters,” she tells Cassandra with a secret smile. “I will make sure that the letters get to you.” Then, she gives Cassandra the tenderest of kisses, and her hands wander over Cassandra’s body, pulling Cassandra’s body flush against her own. Ellana stands on her tip-toes, and Cassandra bends down to meet her. Ellana presses her forehead against Cassandra’s and whispers, “I love you, you know that, right?”

“I love you too,” Cassandra breathes out. “Take care. I’ll come back to visit.”

She rides out with the rest of the surviving Seekers. The mountain air is crisp on her tongue, and the world seems new-made with the fresh blanket of snow coating the path. Cassandra looks back only once to see Ellana smiling at the gates of Skyhold. Then, she faces forward towards the future.

The months slip by, and before Cassandra knows it, the months have turned into two years. 

In that time, she’s worked to build bases across Thedas and renegotiate the terms between the Circle, the Templars, and the Seekers. Well, not that it’s going to be called the Circle any time soon. Leliana’s already hard at work, trying to shake up and change the Chantry’s foundations from the bottom up. Cassandra’s not quite sure if she agrees with Leliana yet, but if it’s change for the better, then she’ll help it along. 

Every other month, she manages to travel back to Skyhold and spend a week with Ellana who always makes sure to be there, waiting for her. Ellana's letters are often endearing. Cassandra feels a short burst of pride whenever she sees how much Ellana has improved in her handwriting since those early, shaky days of learning how to read and write Common fluently. Oftentimes, Ellana includes little things like pressed flowers, acorns from a deep forest, or a small chip of sparkling stone inside the envelope. From her letters and from their conversations together, it looks like Ellana’s been even busier. With Varric’s help and the remaining network of influence from the Inquisition, Ellana’s drawn up terms for better travel and accommodation for the wandering Dalish clans in the Free Marches, Ferelden, and Orlais. The Dales are still Orlesian territory, but since the fields are still pockmarked from war, Ellana and Briala have worked together to move the affected citizens out and make the land more free for the clans to wander. Ellana often complains about how difficult Orlais is being.

But Cassandra should have foreseen that everything good had a time limit.

Two years after the end of the war, Cassandra comes back to Skyhold to see Ellana metaphorically shackled back down to the Inquisition and the stones of Skyhold with diplomatic proclamations coming from both Orlais and Ferelden. Ellana paces in the dust and musty atmosphere of the little-used war room. It’s grave enough to the point that even Divine Victoria comes back. But now, the Divine is Leliana again in the space of the war room, looking like another architect of war again with her old armor and cowl. Cullen shifts uneasily, and Josephine twitches, pen flying across the parchment tacked onto her tablet as she observes. 

“I can only shield the Inquisition for so long,” Leliana finally says. 

Ellana stops and faces Leliana, and Cassandra can see the control Ellana’s struggling to put over her emotions. Despite the long, leather gloves she wears on her hands, Cassandra can still the light of the Anchor burning viridian and emerald. The green stretches up in thin, vein-line strands, encircling Ellana’s forearm underneath the leather. Ellana’s eyes are greener than ever, and there’s no deep brown in them like there was before. “If Orlais thinks that they can force me to bend to their will, they are sorely mistaken,” Ellana warns. “I will not bend and break to the likes of them. What has Briala been doing?” 

“The nobles of Orlais are, for once, in agreement over this,” Josephine sighs. She presses a finger to her temples as she continues, “The Orlesian ambassador, Cyril de Montfort, has been increasingly polite over the course of our discussion, but that does not hide his intentions nor his objectives from the rest of the Orlesian court. If the entire chessboard of the Great Game wants the Inquisition as their own military, then there is little that Briala or Celene can do about it.” 

“At least Guerrin’s upfront with what Ferelden wants from the Inquisition,” Cullen offers. 

Leliana shakes her head and says, “Teagan Guerrin may be a good man, but his brother’s wants and desires and objectives shine through him like glass. Arl Eamon Guerrin is no force to belittle or underestimate. After all, during my time with the Warden, the arl was the one to advocate for Alistair’s place on the throne despite Alistair not knowing how to rule. He is Fereldan through and through.”

“Is that supposed to be a bad thing?” Cullen mutters under his breath.

Leliana pins him with a withering glare as she snaps, “It means that they see us as a threat to their independence, and that is something that Ferelden will not tolerate, regardless of what Alistair does. It means that the Bannorn will try to knock us down within Fereden even if we remain in our current place or even try to destroy our bases within their country if we become a military vassal of Orlais.” 

“Regardless, we will have to go to Halamshiral, Inquisitor,” Josephine cuts in. “They await us at the Winter Palace.”

Ellana sharply glances up at that, and her hands curl into fists at her side. Cassandra knows how much Ellana hates and loves Halamshiral. The remnants of old history are sunken deep in that city whether it be small like the halla statues or grand like the elvhen architecture remaining in the streets and alleys. 

Leliana nods at that and says, “I technically shouldn’t be here either. I am to remain as a neutral party to oversee the Council, Inquisitor.”

Ellana exhales out a heavy breath, and in the span of that breath, Ellana looks older than she ever has in the time that Cassandra’s known her. The weary look in her eye, the new scars she’s gained over the last two years, the green starting to choke out her left hand and arm, and the deepening circles under her eyes that threaten to be darker than her vallaslin. Cassandra wants to sweep her up into an embrace and try to shield her from the worst of it, but she knows that this is a diplomatic issue that she cannot take on herself. This is something for the Inquisitor, no matter how much Ellana may dislike the title.

Later that evening, Cassandra ascends the stairs up to Ellana’s room. Ellana’s standing by her desk, staring out at her old map that she must have pulled out from her drawers. The map is from the days of the war with Corypheus, and when Cassandra joins Ellana’s side, she can see old notes in ink lightened in time. There are still circles over Venatori encampments that Cassandra knows are eradicated and a large streak of graphite to represent the Breach that is now closed. Ellana sighs and glances at Cassandra. “I suppose I was right those years ago,” she says. “My job is not yet done, is it?”

“You could disband the Inquisition,” Cassandra suggests. “You always said you wanted to retire.”

“I think that is what I will end up doing in the end,” Ellana admits. She runs one finger down the length of the Frostback Mountains on the map and says, “But I have been dreaming, and none of them are good.”

“What are they?” Cassandra asks. She wraps one arm around Ellana and guides her back to the bed. 

Ellana hesitates, but when she sits down on the bed, she says slowly, “Smoke and blue eyes, made bright with too much light. The voices from the Well of Sorrows tell me that there is a wolf on the boundaries of the world, walking the line between worlds again, and this time, the line is starting to break down. I do not trust it, and…” She tugs off her leather gloves and shows Cassandra her left hand.

Cassandra gasps out loud when she sees it. Every time she visited Ellana before, she had the Anchor wrapped up tightly underneath bandages, and Ellana promised that it was getting better. But now that the glove is gone, Cassandra can see how inflamed Ellana’s hand is. The Anchor is starting to eat through Ellana’s palm and growing up her forearm towards the juncture of her elbow. Ellana winces and bites down on her lip when the Anchor flares up. Cassandra settles her Seeker senses around the Anchor and tries to quarantine the magic that rumbles out of it, but it’s so strong that she can barely keep it quiet.

“You told me that it was getting better,” Cassandra whispers.

Ellana shuts her eyes and exhales out,  _ “Ir abelas, vhenan. _ I did not want to worry you, but now, I think it is time for the lie to end. I am… I am afraid that I do not have much time.”

Cassandra looks at Ellana, and a slow fear starts to clench around her heart. She can’t imagine Ellana  _ not _ being here, not being here in the space of Skyhold where the mountains cradle them under the canvas of the blue skies, not being here beside Cassandra and not being here in her heart. The very concept is incomprehensible, ragged and torn along the seams, and she thinks that her own heart would be crushed if Ellana were to die. 

That night, Cassandra makes love to Ellana, trying to press in love to fill in the spaces between them, to make up for lost time, to make up for time they might not have. The next day, they ride to Halamshiral, and Cassandra rides with a sinking feeling in her heart. 

Cassandra notices that Ellana has more silver to her at Halamshiral. Sometimes, during meetings, her eyes will shine a flat silver in the glint of the light, but when she looks up at a different angle, her eyes are back to the usual green. When she asks Ellana about it, Ellana says, “The Well is trying to shield me from the worst of it. It is… Difficult, but we are trying.”

Cassandra shivers, but she doesn’t ask any more about it.

Shit hits the fan, as it is wont to do, and one dead Qunari and several old mirrors and ruins later, Cassandra finds herself standing in front of the largest mirror she’s ever seen. She’s coated over with Qunari blood that dries down on her armor, sticky and dark. Mahanon, Cole, and the others are behind her, trying to catch their breaths after the battle that shook the foundations of the liminal space that they’re in. Ellana’s hunched over, trying to cough more breath into her lungs and choking down a scream that threatens to bubble out of her throat when the Anchor bursts in fire again. But soon, she straightens up and quietly says, “I am going to go after him.”

“No,” Mahanon says before Cassandra can say anything. He reaches over and yanks Ellana by her right arm away from the eluvian. “You are not going after the Dread Wolf alone.”

“We do not have a choice,” Ellana hisses back.

“You know, your brother offers up a very good point,” Dorian puffs out. He wipes a streak of old blood off the bridge of his nose and the side of his cheek before he continues, “Going after a god alone is a rather poor idea.”

Mahanon shakes his head and snaps at Ellana, “You  _ have  _ a choice. You are simply being too much of a fool to see it. We go together or not at all. You will not die alone at the hands of that  _ harellan.” _

“He is not  _ harellan, _ he is a friend to me before he is a god or a traitor,” Ellana says, slow and quiet. “And this is something that I must do alone.” She glances down at the Anchor that is gaatlok and fury and everything worse wrapped up into a green mark lancing through her flesh. She pulls away from her brother to kiss Cassandra’s cheek and whisper, “Wait for me, will you?” 

“Let me go with you,” Cassandra says. She reaches one hand out and tries to lunge after her, to keep her by her side, to keep her  _ safe. _ But Ellana steps through the Fade and plunges through the eluvian as easily as passing through water. The world seem to freeze into nothingness as they wait for Ellana to return, and Cole simply whispers things in elvhen in slow, sibilant whispers that only make Mahanon more agitated. Cassandra doesn’t know how much time has passed, but she knows that her heart is beating rabbit-fast. The fear is a familiar one — she felt it in brief flashes during the days of the war and then in one live-wire, white-hot burst at the very end of it when Corypheus was defeated — but now, it stokes back up to something cold that grips Cassandra’s bones.  

Then, Mahanon lets out a scream, just like he did at the Well of Sorrows, and he collapses to the ground, clutching his left arm. Cassandra hurries to him, but he’s incoherent. The few traces of magic in his veins sparks up and catches on fire around him, and it burns with an eerie green tint.  Cassandra barely has the time to spend on checking Mahanon though because the next sound devours her attention so completely. The eluvian shivers, and the sound of tides crashing against a rocky shore fills the Crossroads briefly. Ellana stumbles out of the mirror and falls down, blood spilling out of the end of the limb that she no longer has.

Cassandra’s memory grows dim then. All she really remembers is a blur comprised of the red of Ellana’s blood and the silver of her vallaslin and irises. They haul Ellana out and pitch a makeshift tent while Dorian and Vivienne do their damn best to keep Ellana’s life pinned to the now instead of the dead. Cassandra’s nerves are like cut wires, senses sparking through the ragged ends with a sluggish, painful tilt that can barely sense the thrum of magic through the fabric of the tent. Dorian’s fire that curls up and sways on the edge of some unseen boundary, Vivienne’s ice that numbs the pain streaming out into the magic-stranded air, Solas’s infuriatingly absent presence, and most importantly, the undercurrent of a wilder, Dalish kind of magic that is born of open skies and crashes down around Cassandra like the waves of some shoreless sea.

In the silence outside the tent, Cassandra thinks about all these things. The silence alarms her. At least, if Ellana was screaming, it would mean that there was still some life left to her. Silence can only mean one of two things: unconsciousness and death. Cassandra does not want to think about the latter option. Dorian is the first to leave the tent, and when the tent flap falls behind him, he raises his head to stare at the sky. His hair is plastered to his brow with sweat and blood, and there are streaks of blood right along his temples in the shape of his fingers. Cassandra suspects that he must have pushed his hair out of the way during his work, heedless of what coated his hands. She reaches out with her Seeker’s senses to probe at the edge of his magic, and she finds that it’s burned down to the very end. The formerly flamboyant fire that normally flares up at the edges of his aura has died down, and instead, she can feel only embers of what it used to be. 

The Iron Bull lumbers in with his axe bloodied. Sera limps along beside him, clutching her arm. The blood on both of them is rusty and dried though. “How’s the boss doing?” he asks.

Dorian looks over at the two of them and sighs, “Well, she’s alive. We’re both shoddy at healing, but we tried. We damn well tried. Better than when we found her at least.” He casts his gaze away and mutters, “I’m going to skin that apostate alive for what he did to her.”

Sera scowls, fury etched in every line of her face, and her hand twitches towards her empty quiver, but pain forces her to put her hand back in place over the slash wound. “Dammit, tit-fiddles, for all fuckery, I would skewer the egg man if I saw him again,” she mutters darkly.

Iron Bull shoulders his axe and nudges Sera closer to the pile of elfroot near the tent. “Get some elfroot on that wound of yours. I’m going to rejoin Blackwall along the perimeter,” he says. “I don’t know when reinforcements are going to come in. The Qunari are moving quicker than I expected, probably because of the eluvians. I don’t trust any more elves after… After that.” Bull trails off as they all consider the implications of the elves. He clears his throat and continues, “Most Inquisition troops have been forced to stay where they are because of the council meetings. Might be for the better though. Can’t have  _ her _ location being leaked when she’s like this.”

“She knew what she was getting into,” Mahanon finally says. He’s still sitting down on his bloodied cloak and leaning against some broken rubble. His hand is firmly clenched around his left forearm, and his eyes are dark and full of pain.

Dorian whirls on him and sputters, “So what? Are you trying to tell me that Ellana  _ knew _ that Solas was a  _ god?” _

Mahanon shuts his eyes and tips his head back. “Yes,” he quietly exhales. 

Dorian mutters something in Tevene under his breath, and if Cassandra knows him well enough, it’s a series of swears. He shifts back into Common just long enough to say, “Curse that fool girl’s soft heart. Hasn’t she learned not to put herself in trouble on purpose by now?”

“You’re talking to the same elf that willingly drank from the Well of Sorrows,” Iron Bull rumbles. 

Mahanon shakes his head and quietly says, “My sister is a stubborn woman. More stubborn than I could ever hope to be.”

“Now that’s saying a lot,” Dorian snorts. He winces as he eases himself on the ground and reaches for a waterskin. He slakes his thirst with long gulps, and Cassandra wordlessly passes him a bottle of lyrium. He holds his hand up to stop her and says, “I’ve already had five. Vivienne’s had six though. I don’t think we can take any more.”

“How are we going to bring her back to the Winter Palace?” Varric asks. 

The question is left unanswered, and they all look towards Dorian. He coughs a little bit before he admits, “I don’t know. Vivienne’s keeping her in magical stasis now. It’s keeping her body from collapsing in on itself completely. That Anchor took up so much space in her magic, and her body’s grown used to it, grown around it almost. Without it, her body’s not coping well to the loss. Part of her magic transmuted to that, but if the law of equivalent exchange and the Darinian theory of transmutated growth to be believed, the Anchor is probably reacting in the same way.”

“Explain that again, but like, in a normal way,” Sera says. “You know, how normal people talk?” 

Dorian exhales out a slow, aching sigh before he says, “Think of magic like currency. You pay mana for whatever spell you want to cast. Greater magic has a greater cost. Now, consider the Anchor as a grand fortune, a huge stockpile of money, that our Ellana has been using to spend on her magic for the past three years. When a nobleman used to being rich and spending as much money as he likes suddenly loses all his money, he has a hard time adjusting, right? Ellana’s body is struggling to adjust to the limited availability of magic her body has now.”

“Okay, makes sense,” Sera dubiously says. “But why are you mentioning the green thing? Good riddance to that, I say, but why?” 

Dorian flaps his left hand limply and says, “Now, this is just a theory, but since the Anchor affected Ellana so deeply, I would say that the Anchor is equally affected by her. That’s based off the law of equivalent exchange and the Darinian theory of transmutated growth that a Tevinter magister came up with a few ages ago.” He arches a brow and adds, “Call it petty, but I hope Solas has a harder time using the Anchor now since it has part of her now.”

“So, it’ll make his life harder?” Sera snorts. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Vivienne pushes the tent flap open and walks out. She shivers in the open air, but she sits down by Dorian who hands the waterskin over to her. “She is stable,” Vivienne announces after she takes a sip of water. “But I wouldn’t suggest moving her just yet. She still needs some rest. One person in the tent at a time, please. Now, I’m going to sleep. Do not wake me unless Ellana’s condition changes or if the world is about to end.” She pins them all with an icy look and says, “Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bull says, and Vivienne nods at him.

Cassandra glances back at Mahanon and asks, “May I go in first?” He mutely nods, so Cassandra pushes the tent flap open and goes inside.

It takes a moment for her to adjust to the dim shadows inside, but when she does, she claps a hand to her mouth. Ellana’s sleeve has been torn away to reveal a bloody, blackened, and burned stump where her elbow used to connect her upper arm to her forearm. Cassandra kneels down and reaches out with her other hand to shakily brush her fingers across the expanse of Ellana’s bloodied shirt. Her ironbark armor is in a pile beside her bedroll.

On the first touch, Ellana flutters her eyes open. It’s the slimmest sliver of green since she can’t open her eyes completely yet, but she sleepily blinks at Cassandra. Cassandra tries to choke back a shuddering sob, but she’s so grateful for this small blessing. Her eyes, oh, her lover’s eyes are still bright and undying — like flickering fire underneath embers — and Cassandra’s breath catches in her throat. It’s the kind of fire that she saw in Ellana’s eyes when she dropped out of the time portal in Redcliffe, in that moment at Adamant and within the ever-shifting Fade, in the ruins of the temple and in that last stand between the reddened, lyrium-twisted monster that Corypheus became. It is the kind of fire that belongs only to heroes, and Cassandra is so grateful that it’s still there.

Ellana tries to smile, but she falls back into a deep slumber. Cassandra watches her and thinks that the world has taken  _ enough  _ from Ellana. 

In the end, Cassandra and the Iron Bull carry Ellana out of the Crossroads on a stretcher, and the weight of her burns into the memory of Cassandra’s hands. The memory of that weight in her hands trembles and shakes in her skin when she watches Ellana force herself into her regalia and her position as the Inquisitor again. But it settles down and quiets when Ellana declares the end of the Inquisition.  The Orlesian ambassador leans over to look down at Ellana from his vantage point, but before he can say anything, Ellana snaps, “Orlais will not shackle something meant for the entirety of Thedas as if it were their own possession. I have made my decision to disband the Inquisition, and I stand by it. Divine Victoria?”

“Correct,” Leliana says as she leans back against the high back of her chair. “Let the Inquisitor carry out her own decision. Regardless, the purpose of this Exalted Council has been reached. The decision has been struck, and so it shall be.” 

Ellana leaves the Council with her chin held high and her pride unwavering in the set of her shoulders and the straightness of her spine. Cassandra and the rest of Ellana’s retinue follow after her, but Cassandra is the only one to follow Ellana back to her room. Once the door shuts and the curtains fall to hide the room, Ellana slumps down on the bed and curls up, quiet and shaking.

“Ellana,” Cassandra gasps out. She hurries to Ellana’s side and carefully props her up against the headboard. 

“Cassandra,” Ellana manages to get out. Her left shoulder twitches, but Ellana swears under her breath. “Every now and then, I forget that it is not… There,” she admits. She exhales out a long, heavy sigh before she says, “Even though the Inquisition is gone now, I will still be Inquisitor in the long memory of men. I will not be able to rest.”

“No, this is your chance to do what you’ve always wanted,” Cassandra tries in an attempt to cheer Ellana up. “You’ve always wanted to retire. This is your chance. You could… You could live with me. We could, we could have a farm! With those mabari puppies you always wanted. This is your chance to rest, Ellana.” 

_ Because we have asked too much from you, _ Cassandra thinks.  _ Because we have taken enough from you. We cannot demand more.  _ Ellana has asked her questions like these before but never has she ever demanded anything of Cassandra in return. 

Ellana shakes her head. “No, I cannot,” she says softly. “The world has another god in it, and I must bring him home.” She laughs, but the laugh is mirthless and quiet, barely above a soft breath. “I will have to return to work, but having the Inquisition gone gives me some quiet, some stealth, in the matter.”

“What about the resources you could’ve used with the Inquisition?” Cassandra asks. 

Ellana curls in closer to Cassandra and wearily says, “I do not know how many are his people and how many are mine. It is safer this way. Difficult, yes, but everything is always difficult.” She looks up at Cassandra, wide eyes barely blinking. “I will not ask you to join me on this new mission if you do not want to. It is not safe, I cannot give you shelter, I cannot guarantee you protection.” She lowers her gaze now. “The only thing I can truly promise you is myself, and that is that.”

Cassandra considers it, considers the friend-turned-enemy-turned-god that is Solas, and considers the world ahead of her, the future leaping forward in its ineffable, everlasting nature. But she thinks about something more, a kind of truth that she realizes down to the very depths of her meager bones. Here is the quiet truth that lies at the crux of everything.

Cassandra loves Lavellan beyond anything that she’s ever known before. 

This is the vivacious, brilliantly shining truth at the very core of what seems to be a shoreless sea of all the emotions Cassandra could possibly feel for Ellana. It’s all those small, intimate moments where words aren’t needed that truly remind Cassandra of why and how she loves Lavellan —  _ her Ellana _ — in all the ways that she does. The quiet melodies Lavellan used to sing, the sound of her voice lilting in her Dalish accent, the way the dawn illuminates her face. All of these are quiet, but they were far more than that. The quiet between lightning strikes of a thunderstorm, the quiet before the crack of dawn, the quiet before the exhale and inhale of breaths in battle, the quietness that is both silent and deafening. It is a truth that is wider and more expansive than a shoreless sea, and in that great, wide sea, Cassandra thinks that Ellana is her anchor despite losing the Anchor of a different kind.

Cassandra cups Ellana’s cheek carefully, just like Ellana’s done for her so many times whether that be by a stream and a bear’s hide in the Hinterlands, in the Fade despite the call of demons resounding over the country, or in a temple just before plunging into the remnants of a god. And Cassandra whispers, “I will go with you wherever you will go. You are  _ my _ anchor, Ellana.”

“Even if I no longer have the Anchor?” Ellana asks. The wordplay makes her lips twitch up into a ghost of a smile.

“Yes,” Cassandra says without hesitation. "Yes because I love you.”

Ellana pauses, and her left shoulder twitches once more. Ellana now forces herself up, teetering with the unbalanced equilibrium caused by the lack of her left arm, and leans up to kiss Cassandra. Against her lips, Ellana murmurs, _“Ar lath ma, vhenan._ Together it is then.”

“Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a trip, everyone, what a trip. i've spent so much time rewriting this chapter over and over again, and half of me doesn't want this to end. all things must come to an end though, and i think this is where it'll be at. thank you so much for reading, especially if you've read through the entirety of this! i truly appreciate all the support you've given this story and all the wonderful comments you've left along the way <3

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still bitter about the fact that you cannot romance cassandra as a female inquisitor without a mod..... so i'm here, fulfilling my own wants and needs for fem!lavellan/cassandra content... i'll come up with a better summary later lol


End file.
